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H'EKT      WAS 


The  Needle's  Eye 


By 
FLORENCE   MORSE   KINGSLEY 

Author  of  "Paul"   "  Titus,"  "  Prisoners  of  the  Sea,"  "  The 
Transfiguration  of  Miss  Philura"  etc.,  etc. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
WILLIAM   E.    MEARS 


FUNK    &    WAGNALLS    COMPANY 
NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 
1902 


PS 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
FUNK   &   WAGNALLS   COMPANY 

Registered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 
[  Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America  ] 


Published,  September,  1902 


CONTENTS 


PART    I— THE   FOUNDLING 
CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  A  Wintry  Dawning n 

II  The  Temptation  of  Eliphalet  Dundor     ....  21 

III  The  Stretching  Forth  of  His  Wings 30 

IV  A  Squaring  of  Accounts 40 

V  Revelation 51 

VI  His  Father 62 

VII  Hilda 70 

VIII  OF  Mose 79 

IX  The  Making  of  a  Hermit 90 

X  A  Story 97 

XI  'Liz'beth 106 

XII  The  Lawyer's  Story 117 

XIII  In  the  Valley 130 

XIV  Documentary  Evidence 136 

PART    II— THE   ALTRUIST 

XV  The  Opinions  of  "  A  Crank" 151 

XVI  An  Experiment 158 

XVII  De  Profundis 16? 

XVIII  Alone  in  the  World i?6 


PART  I 

The  Foundling 


CHAPTER  I 
A  Wintry  Dawning 

ABOVE,  blazed  myriad  stars  set  close  in  a  heaven 
of  infinite  darkness;  below,  shone  the  dimly 
luminous  face  of  earth,  piled  high  with  fresh-fallen 
snow.  Betwixt  the  two  a  bitter  wind  whined  fitfully, 
the  snow  leaping  up  in  misty  swirls  to  greet  it,  only  to 
sink  again  in  fantastic  ripples  and  curiously-wrought 
crests  in  fence-corners  and  hollows. 

Erastus  Winch  emerged  from  his  house  into  this 
mystery  of  cold  and  night,  and  stood  for  an  instant, 
staring  about  him  with  the  blank,  unseeing  eyes  of 
one  newly  aroused  from  sleep.  The  wind  hurled 
itself  upon  his  heavy,  stoop-shouldered  figure,  tear 
ing  savagely  at  his  garments,  which  became  on  the 
instant  all  white  and  sparkling  with  the  transfiguring 
snow  crystals.  He  raised  his  smoky  lantern  that  he 
might  consult  the  black-avised  thermometer,  which 
rattled  uneasily  on  its  rusty  nail  beside  the  door. 
"Five  below!"  he  ejaculated,  scowling  at  the  unof 
fending  register  of  temperature.  "  Humph!  " 

The  immediate  result  of  his  subsequent  cogitations 
appeared  in  a  brisk  reopening  of  the  closed  door. 
"'Liz'beth!  I  say,  'Liz'beth!  Be  ye  goin' to  lay  abed 
all  day  ?  It's  more'n  four  o'clock  a'ready,  ye'd  ought 
to  have  yer  fire  a-roarin'  by  this  time.  Consarn  it! 
didn't  I  tell  ye  yiste'day  I  was  goin'  to  kill  to-day  ?" 

The  sound  of  stove-lids  and  poker  in  active  cooper- 
9 


io  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

ation  appearing  sufficient  answer  to  this  harangue,  the 
door  clapped  to  a  second  time,  and  without  further 
pause  the  man  plunged  into  the  drifted  path  leading 
to  the  barn,  which  loomed  huge  and  black  amid  the 
spectral  whiteness  of  the  surroundings.  As  he  opened 
the  door — with  difficulty — because  of  the  clogging 
snow,  a  mingled  odor  of  hay  and  feed,  of  steaming 
bodies  of  cattle  and  horses,  of  harnesses  and  wagons, 
grease-besmeared;  of  huddled  fowls,  of  nests  and 
haunts  of  swallows,  rats  and  mice — an  odor  inde 
scribable  and  not  to  be  mistaken — in  a  word,  the  smell 
of  a  barn,  as  tightly  closed  as  possible  against  wind 
and  cold,  rushed  out  like  an  invisible  presence  to  greet 
him. 

Erastus  Winch  loved  this  smell,  though  he  was 
doubtless  unaware  of  the  fact;  it  was  the  pleasantly 
suggestive  odor  of  "prop'ty'' — as  he  was  wont  to 
term  his  material  possessions.  With  the  odor  came 
sounds,  also  indicative  of  the  presence  of  "prop'ty." 
There  was  a  subdued  but  expectant  stirring  in  the 
darkness,  a  noise  of  shuffling  hoofs,  of  deep-chested 
breathing,  of  heavy  bodies  rubbing  uneasily  against 
frosty  stalls,  of  grunting  and  squealing  from  the  pen 
of  the  condemned  swine,  the  quick  flutter  of  wings, 
and  the  shrill  note  of  the  cock  challenging  the  familiar 
twinkle  of  the  smoky  lantern.  Pleasant  sounds  every 
one,  and  welcome  to  the  ear  of  the  farmer  as  the 
"All's  well!  "  to  the  sailor  on  board  his  flying  vessel, 
or  the  long-drawn  call  of  the  muezzin  to  the  inhabitant 
of  an  Eastern  city. 

The  master  of  the  barn  responded  to  these  tokens  of 
fealty  from  his  dumb  slaves  after  the  manner  of  his 
kind.  "Whoa,  thar!  "  he  bawled  loudly,  as  he  set 


A  WINTRY  DAWNING  n 

down  his  lantern  on  a  convenient  barrel.  "Ha'n't  ye 
got  no  more  sense  'an  to  tear  yer  insides  out,  ye  tarnal 
critters  ?  " 

There  being  manifestly  no  possible  answer  to  this 
inquiry,  the  man  proceeded  to  his  task  of  forking  down 
hay  into  the  mangers,  of  measuring  grain  and  chop 
ping  turnips  for  the  hungry  cattle.  In  the  midst  of 
these  operations  another  sound  smote  upon  his  ears,  a 
sound  which  caused  the  heaped  measure  to  drop  from 
his  shaking  fingers.  It  was  unmistakably  the  cry  of 
a  young  infant.  It  seemed  to  arise  from  the  black 
depths  of  the  haymow. 

Now  if  there  be  anything  on  earth  more  helpless  or 
more  harmless  than  the  young  of  the.  human  species,  it 
is  yet  to  be  found.  Perhaps  because  of  this,  a  baby's 
cry  shakes  the  soul  of  a  man  and  wrings  the  heart  of  a 
woman.  Erastus  Winch  had  heard  this  sound  once 
before  on  a  winter's  morning — a  single  cry,  then  si 
lence.  Whether  he  would  or  no,  in  the  stillness  that 
followed  this  singular  interruption  of  his  labors,  he 
lived  over  again  the  hour  which  saw  his  first-born  and 
only  child  breathe  and  wail — once. 

He  frowned  as  he  refilled  the  measure.  "  I  hope  I 
ain't  fallin'  into  the  ways  of  them  fool  spirichulists," 
he  muttered.  Enlivened  by  the  humor  of  this  conceit, 
he  called  loudly  upon  the  poultry  to  approach  and  be 
fed.  Sounds  of  satisfaction,  of  greed,  of  anxiety,  of 
anger  arose  here  and  there  from  feathered  throats. 
Into  the  midst  of  the  clamor  struck  again  that  other 
sound,  faint,  yet  insistent,  the  cry  of  the  helpless 
human  atom  newly  arrived  out  of  eternity.  The  man 
seized  his  lantern  and  strode  determinedly  toward  the 
haymow.  "I  ain't  no  fool  !"  he  strenuously  assured 


12  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

himself.  "If  thar's  anythin'  in  that  thar  hay  'sides 
fodder,  I'll  find  it,  or  my  name  ain't  Winch." 

There  was  something.  Having  found  it,  he  stood 
stark  still  for  a  full  minute  at  a  loss  for  words  of  suf 
ficient  significance  to  express  his  wonder.  What  he 
saw  by  the  light  of  the  lantern  was  solemn  enough 
and  mysterious  enough  and  sad  enough  to  have  melted 
a  heart  of  stone.  Lying  on  the  hay  at  his  feet  was  the 
form  of  a  woman.  This  much  he  saw  at  a  glance; 
then  his  amazed  eyes  told  him  more.  This  motionless 
figure  was  not  huddled  frowsily  together,  after  the 
manner  of  homeless  vagabonds  who  take  refuge  from 
the  storm  and  cold  in  the  first  rude  shelter  that  offers; 
it  lay  upon  its  rude  couch  in  the  majestic  attitude  of  a 
queen,  who,  having  relinquished  an  earthly  crown, 
passes  on  into  kingdoms  eternal. 

The  woman  was  dead — this  much  was  evident  even 
to  the  dull  perceptions  of  Erastus  Winch.  He  stared  at 
the  still  loveliness  of  the  white  face  unwinkingly. 

"  What — what "  he  muttered,  stammeringthickly  in 

his  bewilderment.  Then  he  stooped  to  draw  aside  the 
folds  of  a  heavy  cloak  which  concealed  something  that 
had  hitherto  escaped  his  notice.  The  something  stirred 
feebly,  and  for  the  third  time  sent  forth  its  piteous 
appeal  for  human  aid. 

'"Liz'beth!     "Liz'beth!" 

The  woman  turned  quickly  from  the  hot  stove 
where  she  was  superintending  the  frying  of  the  matu 
tinal  pork.  She  recognized  in  the  tones  the  familiar 
appeal  of  masculine  inability  to  feminine  efficiency. 
"Wall,  'Rastus,"  she  said  resignedly,  "what's  hap 
pened  now  ?" 

"What's  happened?"  repeated  the  man,  stamping 


A  WINTRY  DAWNING  13 

the  snow  off  his  cowhide  boots  with  vicious  emphasis. 
"  You  kin  well  ask!  Say!  how  many  tarnation  times 
hev  I  got  to  tell  ye  to  lock  the  door  to  the  barn  ?  You 
must  ha'  left  it  open  agin  las'  night  when  you  fed  the 
calves,  an'  a  tramp's  got  in  thar  an'  died." 

"You  don't  say!"  The  woman's  hands  were  up 
lifted,  sympathy  and  horror  dawned  in  her  dim  eyes. 
"In  the  barn!  An'  we  asleep  an'  warm  in  our  bed! 
Why  didn't  the  poor  fellow  come  to  the  house;  he 
could  ha'  slep'  by  the  kitchen  stove's  well  as  not.' 

"Not  much  he  couldn't,"  growled  her  husband,  un 
winding  the  woolen  comforter  from  about  his  neck. 
"Tain't  a  man,  anyhow;  it's  a  woman,  an' thar's  a 
baby — Come  now,  ye  don't  need  to  fly  off  the  handle 
like  that;  if  'tain't  dead  a'ready  'twill  be  time  you  see 
it.  I  want  my  breakfast  first  thing,  d'ye  hear  ?" 

The  woman  had  snatched  up  the  lantern,  and,  cast 
ing  the  skirt  of  her  calico  gown  over  her  head  in 
feeble  defiance  of  the  storm,  was  already  out  of  hear 
ing. 

"Women  are  such  consarned  fools!"  soliloquized 
Erastus  Winch,  regarding  the  frying-pan  sourly. 
"  Pork  a-burnin',  an'  everythin'  goin'  to  thunder,  an' 
don't  keer,  ef  thar's  a  baby  in  a  hunderd  miles  of  'em !  " 

He  clumsily  removed  the  smoking  utensil  from  its 
position  over  the  blazing  sticks,  spattering  his  hands 
with  the  boiling  fat  as  he  did  so,  a  circumstance  which 
by  no  means  soothed  his  already  ruffled  temper.  After 
which  he  followed  his  wife  in  her  hasty  flight  to  the 
scene  of  the  tragedy,  communing  with  himself  as  he 
went  concerning  the  unforeseen  circumstance  which 
threatened  to  upset  his  plans  anent  the  inmates  of  the 
pig-sty. 


I4  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Elizabeth  Winch  had  found  her  way  to  the  side  of 
the  dead  woman,  where,  first  wrapping  the  baby  in 
warm  arms  of  compassion,  she  stood  gazing  into  the 
white  purity  of  the  sleeping  face. 

"Lord  save  us!"  she  was  murmuring  to  herself. 
"Now  did  you  ever!  Poor  thing — an'  we  asleep  an' 
warm  in  our  bed." 

"  Twa'n't  our  fault,"  said  her  husband,  sulkily  eye 
ing  the  dead  woman,  whom  he  conceived  on  the 
instant  to  be  the  cause  of  his  smarting  fingers  as  well 
as  of  his  disordered  plans.  "S'pose  I'll  hev  to  hitch 
up  fust  thing  an'  git  the  cor'ner  up  here,"  he  continued, 
with  rising  irritation.  "  What  bizniss  had  the  likes  of 
her  to  come  sneakin'  'bout  other  folk's  prop'ty — and 
the  poorhouse  not  a  mile  further  on!  The  Lord  knows 
I  pay  taxes  'nough  to  git  quit  of  paupers,  dead  or 
'live! " 

"Now,  'Rastus,"  protested  his  wife,  "prob'ly  the 
poor  critter  couldn't  walk  another  step.  But,  land!  I 
mus'n't  stan'  here;  she's  stun  dead,  that's  plain;  but 
this  'ere  baby's  as  live  as  a  cricket — poor  lamb!  " 

"That  young  un's  a-goin'  to  the  poorhouse,  soon's 
I  c'n  git  my  breakfas'  an'  hitch,"  quoth  the  man  loudly. 
But  Elizabeth,  being  a  thin,  agile  woman,  was  again 
out  of  hearing. 

He  repeated  his  words  with  added  emphasis  half  an 
hour  later.  The  two  had  partaken  of  their  meal  in 
haste  and  silence,  the  woman  casting  an  occasional 
glance  toward  the  wooden  rocking-chair,  where 
warmly  covered  the  waif  slept  quietly. 

Erastus  Winch  had  followed  these  glances  with 
frowning  eyes.  Now  he  pushed  back  his  chair  with 
a  loud  scraping  sound,  and  deliberately  wiped  his 


A  WINTRY  DAWNING  15 

mouth  upon  the  back  of  his  hand.  This  was  the 
familiar  signal  for  a  prompt  renewal  of  the  grinding 
labor  which  made  up  their  daily  lives.  Elizabeth  was 
wont  to  respond  by  springing  at  once  from  her  chair 
and  instituting  a  vigorous  attack  upon  the  breakfast 
dishes.  This  morning  she  sat  still  in  her  place;  her 
eyes  as  she  lifted  them  to  her  husband's  face  shone 
with  an  unaccustomed  light. 

"'Rastus,"  she  began  timidly,  "  I  wish — that  is,  I've 
been  a-thinkin'  that  — 

"Yas!"  broke  in  the  man,  noisily  ruminating  the 
departing  flavors  of  his  recent  meal,  "I  know  what 
you've  been  a-thinkin'  well  'nough.  You  want  I 
should  'low  ye  to  keep  that  thar  young  un;  but  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  do  it.  It'll  start  fur  the  poorhouse  in  jes' 
ten  minits  f'om  now.  I'll  stop  to  Dundor's  on  the  way 
back,  an'  he'll  see  to  gittin'  the  corpse  away." 

He  paused  with  his  hand  upon  the  latch  and  fixed 
his  small  greenish  eyes  full  upon  the  woman.  "An" 
I'll  tell  ye  'nother  thing  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  hev  neither — 
an'  you'd  better  pay  'tention  to  what  I  tell  ye.  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  hev  all  the  women-folk  in  this  'ere  neighbor 
hood  a  trapsin'  through  this  house  an'  runnin'  all  over 
my  barn,  peekin'  an'  pryin'  an'  clackin'.  Don't  ye  tell 
nobody  what's  up.  Time  'nough  fur  gabbin'  when 
the  hull  thing's  out  the  way.  That's  my  way  of 
tendin'  to  bizniss,  an'  it's  been  my  way  fur  more  'n 
forty  years  back.  I'm  going  out  to  hitch  up  the  crit 
ters  now;  whilst  I'm  gone  you  c'n  git  the  water 
a-bilin'.  I'm  goin'  to  kill  them  hogs  jes'  's  I  said,  if  we 
be  late.  Consarn  the  tramp  anyhow!  " 

Elizabeth  had  not  stirred  from  her  chair  during  this 
harangue.  Her  husband  suddenly  became  aware  of 


1 6  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

this.  "What  you  settin'  thar  for?"  he  demanded. 
"Looks  like  you  was  waitin' fur  kingdom  come.  I 
hain't  no  time  to  fool  away,  I  tell  ye! " 

" 'Rastus  Winch,"  said  the  woman  slowly,  "I'm 
a-goin'  to  keep  that  baby." 

"  You're  a-goin'  to  keep  that  baby — eh  ?" 

"Yes,  I  be.  The  Lord  ain't  never  giv'  me  none  of 
my  own  'xcept—  Her  voice  broke  and  she  raised 

her  apron  to  her  eyes. 

Erastus  Winch  set  his  back  against  the  door;  his 
grim  face  hardened.  "You  ain't  no  call  to  bring  that 
up,"  he  said  harshly.  "The  Lord's  done  by  ye 
'cordin'  to  his  will.  You  ain't  got  no  childern  'cause 
he  don't  want  ye  to  have  none." 

"  He's  give  me  this  one.     I'm  a-goin'  to  keep  it!" 

"  Wall  now,  /  say  ye  ain't,  an'  I'm  the  one  to  say,  I 
guess!  Why,  gol  durn  it,  hain't  ye  got  'nough  to 
occ'py  yer  time  ?  Thar's  the  cows  a-comin'  in  afore 
long — thar'll  be  a  dozen  or  more  calves  to  look  arter. 
An'  hens  an'  turkeys  an'  geese  to  set,  an'  chicks  an' 
goslin's  to  feed;  an'  all  the  while  the  milk  to  take  keer 
of  an'  butter  to  make.  You  ain't  a-goin'  to  tie  yer 
han's  with  no  beggar  brat,  if  I  know  it.  'Sides  we 
can't  'ford  it.  He'd  eat  his  blamed  head  off  in  no 
time! " 

Elizabeth  Winch  arose  from  her  chair.  She  was  a 
tall,  angular  woman,  whose  dress,  complexion  and 
hair  had  long  since  acquired  the  hopeless  tints  of  her 
surroundings.  But  the  eyes  in  the  faded  face  shone 
suddenly  bright  and  clear,  and  the  voice  rang  out  in 
the  forgotten  tones  of  youth.  "'Rastus!"  she  cried, 
"you  say  the  Lord  ain't  sent  me  no  childern  'cause  he 
don't  want  me  to  have  none.  Then  why  did  he  give 


A  WINTRY  DAWNING  17 

me  sech  a  hankerin'  after  'em  ?  He  does  want  me  to 
have  'em,  an'  he  meant  I  should  have  'em! "  • 

"Why  ain't  you  got  'em  then  ?  "  sneered  the  man, 
repenting  the  words  as  they  escaped  his  lips  in  the 
light  of  the  answering  flash  from  the  eyes  of  the 
woman. 

"You  don't  need  to  ask  that  question,"  she  an 
swered  bitterly.  "  If  I'd  ha'  had  half  the  care  you 
give  the  milk  critters  mebbe—  But  they  ain't  no 
use  talkin'  'bout  it.  That's  my  baby  in  the  cheer 
yonder;  an'  he  ain't  a-goin'  to  the  poor  farm  this  day 
ner  any  other  day!  " 

The  man  shifted  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
then  he  burst  out  in  loud,  blustering  tones.  "Whose 
house  is  this,  anyhow  ?  Ain't  it  mine  ?  Say,  ain't  I  a 
right  to  tell  what  I'll  hev'  an'  what  I  won't  hev'  in  my 
own  house  ?  Consarn  it!  What  d'ye  mean  by  talkin' 
that  way  to  me  ?  I  tell  ye,  ye  hain't  got  no  time  to  fool 
with  that  young  un !  It's  a-goin'  whar  it  b'longs  jest  as 
quick  as  I  kin  git  it  thar! " 

Elizabeth  walked  swiftly  to  the  side  of  the  rocking- 
chair.  She  laid  her  work-distorted  fingers  lightly,  ca 
ressingly  on  the  soft-heaving  wrappings  which  betrayed 
chrysalis-like  the  life  pulsing  within.  "'Rastus,"  she 
said,  tremulously,  "this  is  your  house;  but  ain't  it 
mine,  too  ?  Ha'n't  I  slaved  and  worked  for  what  we've 
got  ever  sence  we  was  married  jest  as  hard  as  you  have 
— an'  harder  mebbe  ?  Ain't  I  got  some  rights  here  ? 
I've  took  keer  of  calves  an'  chickens  faithful  all  my  life; 
now  can't  I  give  a  little  time  to  him  ? — It  won't  be 
much,  husband ;  I  kin  do  more  fur  you  ef  I  have  him !  " 

"Now,  'Liz'beth,  you're  a-talkin'  what  ain't  good 
horse  sense,"  said  the  man,  tugging  argumenta- 


1 8  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

lively  at  the  short  tuft  of  gray  whiskers  which  de 
pended  from  his  chin.  "An"  what's  more,  you  know 
you  be.  You  don't  want  that  boy  any  more'n  a  cat 
wants  two  tails;  an'  I'm  blamed  sure  I  don't;  so  that's 
settled!  "  He  turned  peremptorily  as  he  spoke  and  laid 
his  hand  once  more  upon  the  latch.  "I'm  a-goin'  to 
hitch  now;  I'll  stop  at  the  door  fur  the  young  un  an' 
mind  you  don't  hender  me  with  no  more  of  your 
dummed  nonsense!"  He  slammed  the  door  heavily 
behind  him. 

Elizabeth  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the  rocking- 
chair,  her  thin  shoulders  shaking  with  suppressed  sobs. 
"My  baby!"  she  whispered,  "my  baby! — mine- 
mine!" 

When  ten  minutes  later  the  frosty  jingle  of  bells  and 
harness  apprised  her  of  the  fact  that  the  "  hitchin'  up  " 
had  been  accomplished,  she  opened  the  door,  closed  it 
carefully  behind  her  and  stood  waiting  ankle  deep  in 
the  unswept  snow. 

Her  husband  eyed  her  sourly  as  he  pulled  up  his 
horses.  "  Hand  it  out,"  he  commanded  briefly. 

"  I've  got  somethin'  to  say  to  you,  "Rastus." 

"Wall!" 

"If  you  take  that  baby  away  from  me,  'Rastus 
Winch,  I'll  never  feed  another  chicken;  I'll  never  look 
at  another  calf;  I'll  never  cook  you  another  meal  of 
victuals,  nor  lift  a  finger  in  your  house  agin  as  long  as 
I  live—  So  help  me  God!"  The  woman's  face  was 
pinched  and  colorless,  but  solemn  determination  was 
written  in  every  line  of  it. 

The  man's  jaw  fell;  he  thrust  one  leg  tentatively  out 
of  the  sleigh,  then  slowly  pulled  it  in  again  and  me 
chanically  drew  the  blankets  closer  about  his  knees. 


A  WINTRY  DAWNING  19 

"You're  a  durned  sight  bigger  fool  'an  I  took  ye  fur, 
'Liz'beth,"  he  said,  with  a  rasping  cough.  "  You'll  be 
mighty  sorry  for  this  afore  you're  through!"  With 
that  he  curled  his  lash  with  vicious  emphasis  about  the 
flanks  of  his  shivering  horses,  and  disappeared  in  a 
cloud  of  glittering  snow  dust  which  smote  the  woman's 
white  face  like  needles. 

"I'll  never  be  sorry  for  it!"  she  cried  exultantly. 
She  laughed  aloud  in  the  face  of  the  rising  sun,  the 
white  long  shafts  of  pink  and  yellow  splendor  streamed 
across  the  dazzling  blue-white  of  the  fields,  transfig 
uring  the  haggard  figure  with  the  celestial  tints  of 
morning.  From  the  gnarled  orchard  closes  sounded 
the  gay  carol  of  a  chickadee;  sparrows  called  shrilly 
from  their  ragged  nests  under  the  eaves.  The  woman 
stared  about  her  with  wide  eyes,  her  starved  soul 
swelling  in  her  shriveled  breast. 

Then  the  thought  of  the  dead  mother  seized  her  like 
a  threatening  hand.  "I  must  look,"  she  muttered. 
"There'll  be  a  letter  mebbe — or  a  name.  Somebody '11 
take  him  away  from  me!" 

There  was  no  letter,  no  name,  no  sign — even  on  the 
worn  clothing  in  which  the  unknown  was  clad;  Eliza 
beth  satisfied  herself  of  this.  A  sweet-smelling  mys 
tery,  flower-pure,  snow-cold,  the  dead  mother  vouch 
safed  no  answer  to  the  burning  questions  in  the  eyes 
of  the  living  mother  who  bent  over  her.  She  rever 
ently  touched  one  of  the  waxen  hands.  "I  ain't  like 
you,"  she  whispered,  "but  I'll  love  him  an'  take  keer 
of  him  faithful  as  long  's  I  live! " 

Then  she  uttered  a  short,  sharp  cry.  There  was 
something  after  all,  lying  on  the  hay  and  half  covered 
by  one  exquisite  palm.  Elizabeth  drew  this  object 


20  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

toward  her  with  shaking  fingers,  and  wrapping  it  in 
her  apron  fled  toward  the  house. 

In  the  rosy  light  of  the  new  day  which  streamed  in 
at  the  kitchen  window  she  examined  what  she  had 
found.  It  was  a  book — a  Bible,  bound  in  shabby  rus 
set-colored  leather.  On  the  fly  leaf  something  was 
written  in  a  delicate  hand;  to  Elizabeth's  unaccustomed 
eyes  it  seemed  almost  illegible.  She  spelled  it  out 
word  by  word:  "The  stretching  forth  of  his  wings 
shall  fill  the  breadth  of  thy  land,  O  Immanuel!"  Be 
low  this  were  two  other  words  written  in  bolder  char 
acters.  She  stared  at  them  intently,  but  the  strangely 
twisted  letters  conveyed  no  meaning  to  her  brain. 

"  It's  a  name,  mebbe,"  she  muttered.  "I— I'll  keep 
it  keerful  for  him." 


CHAPTER  II 
The  Temptation  of  Eliphalet  Dundor 

DURING  the  three  days  in  which  the  dead  woman 
lay  in  the  back  room  of  the  undertaker's  shop  in 
Tacitus  Four  Corners,  all  the  countryside  emptied  itself 
before  the  door.  Solemn-faced  farmers  with  their  wives ; 
children  on  their  way  to  school;  grimy  young  women 
and  grimier  young  men,  operatives  in  the  cotton  fac 
tory  across  the  river;  old  people  scarce  able  to  drag 
their  bodies  from  the  warm  nooks  and  corners  where 
they  dozed  away  their  vacant  days,  one  and  all  found 
their  way  into  the  bare  little  room  dignified  for  the 
nonce  by  the  terrible  name — morgue. 

There  had  been  set  on  foot,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
certain  official  inquiries,  which  had  led  up,  after  the 
frequent  manner  of  official  inquiries,  to  the  dead  wall 
of  the  unknowable.  A  vast  number  of  excited  ru 
mors  and  gossiping  surmises  ended  at  the  same  impass 
able  point.  If  the  white  mystery  in  Erastus  Winch's 
barn  had  been  dropped  there  out  of  the  icy  arms  of  the 
storm,  its  story  could  not  have  been  more  deeply 
shrouded  from  prying  eyes. 

Eliphalet  Dundor— familiarly  known  on  ordinary  oc 
casions  as  Liph — was  disposed  to  regard  the  present 
"sad  occasion"  as  an  auspicious  event  in  his  business 
career.  As  coroner  and  undertaker,  his  professional 
pride  had  been  deeply  gratified  by  the  prominent  posi- 


22  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

tion  in  the  eyes  of  his  fellow-citizens  which  he  now 
occupied.  He  wore  uninterruptedly  his  most  impress 
ive  air  of  perfunctory  solemnity — becomingly  tem 
pered  with  alert  politeness,  together  with  his  official 
suit  of  black  clothes. 

In  the  front  of  the  shop  certain  elaborately  trimmed 
coffins  were  displayed,  at  which  the  visitors  cast  curious 
glances  as  they  passed  in  and  out  of  that  other  room, 
where  lay  the  cold  presence  of  the  dead. 

"  Walk  right  up,  ladies  an'  gentlemen,  an'  view  these 
elegant  goods  at  your  leisure,"  said  Mr.  Dundor,  with 
a  professional  wave  of  the  hand.  "Now  that  you've 
taken  a  look  at  her  you  really  can't  afford  to  go  away 
without  seeing  how  comf'table  we  c'n  make  the  dear 
departed  here  in  Tacitus  Four  Corners.  There's  only 
jest  one  thing  we're  certain  of,  ladies,  in  this  'ere  vale 
of  sorrers — we  must  all  die  some  day  or  another,  each 
an'  every  one  of  us.  An'  whilst  we're  su'vivors  it's  the 
greatest  of  all  earthly  comforts  to  feel  that  the  dear  de 
parted  is  laid  away  by  one  that  knows  how  to  conduct 
the  arrangements  so  't  you  may  say  it's  a  pleasure  to  be 
the  corpse."  Many  of  the  women  shed  tears  excitedly 
as  they  left  Mr.  Dundor's  emporium.  It  was  unani 
mously  conceded  to  be  "more  interestin'  than  areg'lar 
fun'ral." 

The  short  December  day  was  drawing  to  its  close 
with  a  gorgeous  pageant  of  crimsons  and  purples 
which  streamed  far  across  the  wintry  land,  kindling 
the  village  vanes  and  windows  into  gem-like  splendor. 
This  celestial  radiance  penetrated  the  dusty  window- 
panes  of  Mr.  Dundor's  shop  and  mingled  with  the 
uncertain  light  of  a  smoky  kerosene  lamp,  which,  for 
convenience  sake,  was  placed  on  the  upturned  end  of 


THE  TEMPTATION  OF  DUNDOR        23 

a  pine  coffin.  After  the  active  duties  of  the  day  the 
worthy  undertaker  had  permitted  himself  the  relax 
ation  of  a  short  clay  pipe  stuffed  with  malodorous 
tobacco,  the  while  he  "set  up"  a  receptacle  of  the 
poorest  and  commonest  kind  for  the  meek  figure 
which  lay  in  the  shadows  beyond. 

The  article  upon  which  Mr.  Dundor  was  industri 
ously  engaged  differed  widely  from  the  fantastic  affairs 
which  he  had  displayed  to  an  admiring  public  earlier 
in  the  day;  a  combination  of  wood  shavings,  euphe 
mistically  termed  excelsior,  with  certain  scant  breadths 
of  sleezy  cambric  of  an  unpleasant  bluish  white,  were 
the  simple  materials  with  which  he  was  lining  the  nar 
row  pine  box  of  ominous  shape.  It  was,  in  short,  a 
pauper's  coffin,  on  which  profits  were  reduced  to  a 
point  which  brought  a  commensurate  scowl  to  the 
workman's  forehead.  At  sound  of  a  shrill  tinkle, 
twice  repeated,  which  marked  the  opening  and  closing 
of  the  outer  shop  door,  Mr.  Dundor  laid  down  his 
hammer,  and  tiptoeing  across  the  room,  applied  one 
eye  to  a  knot-hole  in  the  partition.  After  a  brief  re 
connaissance  he  hastily  divested  himself  of  his  overalls 
and  extinguished  his  pipe. 

The  newcomer  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  shop, 
glancing  abput  him  somewhat  uncertainly  over  the 
collar  of  his  greatcoat.  He  was  a  short  man,  much 
muffled  up,  and  wearing  a  slouched  hat  pulled  well 
down  over  his  eyes;  Mr.  Dundor's  alert  eyes  took  in 
these  details  as  he  advanced  on  creaking  tiptoe  from  the 
inner  room.  He  bowed  his  sleek  head  with  a  tenta 
tive  air  of  concern  and  sympathy.  "  Ah,  my  dear  sir, 
good-evening,"  he  began,  sucking  in  the  corners  of  his 
lips  with  a  windy  sigh.  "Was  there  anything— ah— I 


24  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

could  do  for  you  in  the  mortuary  line,  sir?  A  sudden 
bereavement  perhaps — yes,  yes!" 

"There  was  a  woman,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  harsh 
metallic  voice,  at  sound  of  which  the  undertaker  again 
bowed  low,  caressing  the  glossy  knees  of  his  trowsers 
with  uncertain  fingers.  "A  woman,  found  dead — in 
a  barn,  was  it?  Can't  say;  just  chanced  to  see  it  in 
newspaper.  Detained  at  your  junction  for  an  hour  or 
more.  Concluded  to  pass  away  the  time  by  looking 
the  matter  up." 

"There  was  a  woman;  yes,  sir;  certainly — quite 
right.  Found  dead,  as  you  say,  sir,  in  a  barn.  Sad 
case — very.  Funeral  to-morrow." 

"  Let  me  see  her." 

"Certainly — to  be  sure.  The  public  has  been  ad 
mitted  as  a  matter  of  precaution — that  is,  with  the 
view  of  securing  some  further  evidence.  I  have  the 
honor  of  being  coroner  of  this  deestrict,  sir." 

The  stranger  made  no  comment;  but  a  certain  alert 
ness  in  his  manner  called  forth  a  further  remark  from 
Mr.  Dundor.  "We  have  not  as  yet  succeeded  in 
identifying  the  remains,"  he  said,  frowning  and  thrust 
ing  out  his  lips  with  an  air  of  judicial  wisdom.  "Sad 
case — very.  Now  you  don't  happen  to  be  a  possible 
acquaintance  of  the  deceased,  do  you,  sir?" 

They  were  standing  at  the  side  of  the  dead  woman, 
and  the  observant  undertaker  fancied  that  the  aquiline 
features  visible  above  the  high  coat  collar  quivered  for 
an  instant.  "You  don't  happen  to — ah — know  this 
unfortinit  young  woman,  do  you,  sir?"  he  repeated, 
with  an  insinuating  smile. 

The  stranger  turned  sharply  around.  "  What  do  you 
mean — by  asking  such  a  question?"  he  demanded 


THE  TEMPTATION  OF  DUNDOR        25 

in  a  low,  fierce  voice.  "No,  I  don't  know  the 
woman.  Why  should  1  ?  Didn't  I  tell  you  what  I 
came  for?  I  came  to  please  myself— to  amuse  myself! 
I  said  so,  didn't  I  ?" 

"Oh— ah,  yes,  certainly,  my  dear  sir;  no  offense 
intended;  no  offense  whatever.  But  as  coroner  of 
this  'ere  deestrict,  you  know,  an'  with  no  evidence 
whatever—  Sad  case,  very,  an'  a  nameless  child,  too 
— a  very  sad  an'  melancholy  occasion,  to  be  sure!  " 

"A  child!"  interrupted  the  other,  sharply.  "But 
nonsense,  I  don't  see  it!  " 

"There  was  a  child — yes,  certainly.  The  child  was 
living — is  living,  I  may  say." 

"Humph!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  didn't  quite  catch  the 
remark." 

The  stranger  turned  his  back  upon  the  dead  woman. 
"The  funeral  is  to-morrow,  I  believe  you  said?" 

"Yes,  sir,  to-morrow,  at  ten  o'clock  sharp;  at  the 
expense  of  the  town — an'  mighty  little  expense  it  is. 
I've  buried  the  paupers  in  this  'ere  community  nigh 
onto  twenty  years,  an'  there  ain't  a  dollar  of  profit  in 
it — not  a  dollar." 

The  stranger  glanced  at  the  pine  box  with  its  cam 
bric  linings.  "This  is  for  her,  I  suppose,"  he  said 
coldly. 

"  Yes,  sir;  an'  a  mighty  roomy  an1  stylish  coffin  it  is 
for  a  pauper.  She'll  lie  quiet  enough,  once  she's  put 
away.  I  ain't  sure  it  makes  much  difference  to  'em 
anyhow;  it's  the  su'vivors  'at's  pertic'lar.  I  c'n  show 
you  some  elegant  goods  in  all  the  latest  styles,  if  you 
was  interested  in  seein'  'em,  sir." 

"I    have  a  fancy — mind  you,  it's  a  mere  whim  of 


26  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

mine  to  see  this — this  pauper  buried  decently,"  said  the 
stranger,  fixing  his  frowning  gaze  on  the  undertaker. 
"  I  shouldn't  care  to  think  of  a  dog  in  that!  "  He  in 
dicated  the  box  with  a  slight  gesture. 

"  If  you — ah — happened  to  know  any  one  who  is  an 
acquaintance,  or  perhaps  a  relative  of  the  deceased, 
you  —  Mr.  Dundor's  eyes  were  roving  inquisitively 
over  the  person  of  his  visitor,  but  his  words  died  away 
into  an  inarticulate  mumble  before  the  fierce  eyes  above 
the  high  coat-collar.  He  rubbed  his  hands  together 
apologetically.  "You  understand  my  position,  sir, 
as  coroner  of  this  dees " 

"You  heard  what  I  said,"  broke  in  the  stranger 
with  a  scornful  shrug.  "  If  you  care  to  listen  to 
what  I  say,  then  do  so  without  remark,  my  time  is 
limited." 

"Certainly,  my  dear  sir;  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm 
sure.  I'm  always  ready  an'  anxious  to  ah — serve  the 
b'reaved  in  any  an'  all 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  attend  me.  Place  the  body 
of  the  woman  in  your  best  casket.  Seal  it  up  and 
bury  it  without  delay.  What  has  passed  between  us 
need  not  be  mentioned.  This  whim  of  mine — a  mere 
fancy  which  came  into  my  mind  as  I  saw  the  woman 
—need  not  become  common  talk.  Do  you  under 
stand  ?  " 

Mr.  Eliphalet  Dundor's  lean  hand  closed  upon  the 
roll  of  bills  which  the  other  man  offered.  "Very 
generous  of  you,  sir,  I'm  sure.  Nothing  to  be  ashamed 
of,  certainly.  I — ah — quite  understand,  I  assure  you. 
Natural  modesty  of  benevolent  gent'man;  prevent  left 
hand  knowin'  right  hand's  doin's — eh?  Everything 
shall  be  as  you  wish,  sir;  elegant  casket,  satin  linin's, 


THE  TEMPTATION  OF  DUNDOR        27 

pillers  soft  and  easy  to  the  head,  silver  trimmin's, 
an'— 

The  sound  of  the  outer  shop  door  as  it  shut  to  with 
a  sharp  protest  from  the  rusty  bell  informed  Mr.  Dun- 
dor  that  he  was  once  more  alone. 

"Curious  circumstance — very,"  he  muttered  to  him 
self.  "If  there  had  been  any  marks  of  violence  on 
the  body  now,  I  should  have  felt  justified  in  making 
an  arrest — yes,  to  be  sure,  an  arrest!  But  everything 
was  quite  regular;  young  woman,  identity  unknown, 
found  dead — froze.  Nothing  out  of  the  way  or  sus 
picious  in  freezing.  Any  young  woman  sim'larly 
situated  would  have  froze.  Sad  case — very.  Ah." 

Mr.  Dundor  had  climbed  to  the  high  stool  behind 
his  desk  during  this  soliloquy;  the  roll  of  bills  lay 
spread  out  before  him  in  the  light  of  the  smoky  lamp. 
"Ah,"  he  repeated,  rubbing  his  hands  as  he  eyed  the 
crisp  green  notes,  "  very  generous  indeed — very  hand 
some!  What  a  pity  not  to  speak  of  the  matter. 

"  It  would  get  into  the  papers,"  he  said,  smiling 
pleasantly  to  himself.  "Something  like  this — say: 
'  Mr.  Eliphalet  Dundor,  the  well-known  coroner  and 
undertaker  of  Tacitus  Four  Corners,  receives  visit  from 
mysterious  person,  who  insists  upon  paying  hand 
somely  for  funeral  of  the  unknown  woman  found  dead 
in  that  township.  Mr.  Dundor  is  a  prominent  citizen 
an1  active  business  man  in  this  thrivin'  village.  We 
visited  his  elegant  emporium  at  the  Corners  yester 
day  an'  give  the  story  in  his  own  words.'  If  there's 
money  in  advertisin' — he! — he!"  he  chuckled,  "I'd 
get  a  plenty  of  it  without  paying  the  printer  a  red 
cent." 

This  brought  him  back  quite  naturally  to  the  agree- 


28  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

able  presence  of  the  greenbacks  on  the  desk  before 
him.  "  It'll  pay  the  expenses,"  he  muttered,  "an' 
leave  a  handsome  margin.  There's  the  money  from 
the  town  besides.  I'll  have  to  take  that  or  they'll  ketch 
on  to  this  'ere  curious  circumstance." 

He  arose,  lamp  in  hand,  and  walked  slowly  to  the 
front  of  the  shop;  the  long  shadows  of  the  coffins 
danced  grotesquely  on  walls  and  ceiling,  mingling 
with  that  of  Mr.  Dundor's  own  spare  shape.  "This 
'ere  's  too  big  for  her,"  he  muttered;  "they  ain't  no 
sense  in  wastin'  room  on  folks  that  ain't  called  on  to 
move.  Besides,  ol'  Mr.  Snell's  ripenin'  for  a  better 
world,  an'  he's  a  hefty  man.  If  I  have  to  set  up  one 
like  this  we  can't  have  no  fun'ral  to-morrow  at  ten; 
can't  fetch  it  nohow  under  a  day  an'  a  half.  That 
black  cloth  case  'ud  do,  but  I  as  good  as  promised  to 
set  that  one  side  fur  Mis'  Turner,  an'  I  don't  like  to  dis 
appoint  her;  her  second  husband's  buried  in  one  sim'- 
lar  to  it.  The  Lord  knows  I  can't  afford  to  play  fast 
an'  loose  with  a  big  fambly  like  the  Turners  an'  all 
of  'em  onhealthy." 

His  mind  reverted  to  the  meek  presence  in  the  back 
shop.  "  She  ain't  goin'  to  dictate  'bout  it,  I  guess,"  he 
said  meditatively,  as  he  tiptoed  softly  to  the  side  of  the 
dead  woman.  "  All  any  of  'em  ask  is  to  be  put  away 
comf'table." 

The  smoky  lamp  shed  a  feeble  glimmer  on  the  pa 
thetic  young  face  framed  in  its  masses  of  red-brown 
hair.  "I'll  miss  my  guess  if  he  hadn't  put  eyes  onto 
her  before,"  said  Mr.  Dundor.  "  But  she  ain't  dressed 
suitable  to  be  laid  on  white  satin  whoever  she  is;  an' 
I'm  legally  bound  to  stick  to  my  contract  with  the 
town."  He  turned  with  decision,  and,  setting  the 


THE  TEMPTATION  OF  DUNDOR        29 

lamp  in  its  former  position,  resumed  his  operations  on 
the  narrow  pine  box  of  ominous  shape. 

It  was  growing  bitterly  cold  in  the  little  back  room, 
but  great  drops  of  moisture  stood  out  on  the  work 
man's  forehead.  "  Stylish  an'  roomy,"  he  repeated  to 
himself,  with  a  furtive  glance  at  the  quiet  figure  in  the 
shadows,  "  an'  there  ain't  no  su'vivors." 


CHAPTER  III 
The  Stretching  Forth  of  His  Wings 

ON  the  following  day  Elizabeth  Winch  stood  in  the 
open  door  of  her  house,  a  smile  of  timid  wel 
come  on  her  face;  the  minister's  wife  was  coin 
ing  up  the  path.  "Do  walk  right  in,  Mis'  Holditch," 
she  said  hospitably;  "  it's  awful  cold,  ain't  it  ?  You'd 
better  take  your  things  off,  I  guess,  while  you're 
settin',  or  you  won't  sense  them  when  you  go 
out." 

The  minister's  wife  untied  her  blue  veil  and  unpinned 
her  heavy  blanket  shawl.  "  Tis  cold,"  she  admitted; 
"but  I  was  well  wrapped  up."  She  was  a  stout, 
motherly  woman,  with  a  countenance  composed  to  a 
comfortable  acquiescence  in  the  inscrutable  ways  of 
Providence.  "I'd  like  to  see  that  baby,"  she  added, 
as  she  emerged  like  a  substantial  beetle  from  its  encum 
bering  chrysalis. 

"  You — you  wouldn't  be  wantin'  him  ?  "  asked  Eliza 
beth,  hesitatingly. 

"Dear,  no!"  said  the  other,  with  a  pitying  smile. 
"  I  know  too  well  what  a  piece  of  work  it  is  to  bring 
up  a  bottle  baby!  But,  of  course,  we  all  take  an  in 
terest  in  the  poor  child." 

Elizabeth  drew  her  guest  into  the  tiny  bedroom  off 
the  kitchen.  "  He's  asleep,"  she  whispered,  her  face 
glowing  with  joyful  pride.  "  He  sleeps  most  all  the 
time  when  he  ain't  eatin'.  He  ain't  a  mite  of  trouble. 

30 


STRETCHING  FORTH  OF  HIS  WINGS    31 

He's  growin'  jest  like  a  little  weed— no,  1  ain't  a-goin' 
to  say  that  neither,  weeds  is  ugly  things.  He's  more 
like  a  little  pink  flower.  There  now,  look  at  him; 
ain't  he  lovely  ?" 

Mrs.  Holditch  leaned  over  the  sleeping  form,  a  fine 
motherly  smile  dawning  in  her  kind  eyes.  She  touched 
the  soft  rose  of  the  tiny  cheek  with  a  wise  forefinger. 
"  I  should  say  he  was  as  healthy  a  child  as  I  ever  saw," 
she  said  judicially.  "And  I  guess  you  know  how  to 
do  for  him  as  well  as  if  you'd  had  more  experience. 
You  want  to  dilute  his  milk  with  boiled  water,  and 
don't  feed  him  every  time  he  cries." 

"  He  ain't  hardly  cried  sence  I've  had  him,"  breathed 
the  other,  with  a  triumphant  smile.  "  An'  jest  look  at 
his  hair,  will  you,  a  curlin'  all  over  his  blessed  little 
head!  His  eyes  is  as  black  as  velvet,  an'  he  knows  me 
a'ready;  you  wouldn't  believe  it,  would  you  now,  Mis' 
Holditch  ?  " 

"They're  more  knowing  than  most  folks  give 'em 
credit  for,"  responded  the  minister's  wife  briskly. 
"What  does  Mr.  Winch  say  about  him  ?" 

Elizabeth's  face  clouded.  "He  don't  want  him," 
she  said  sullenly.  "  But  I've  made  up  my  mind." 

"  You  might  name  him  after  your  husband,"  sug 
gested  Mrs.  Holditch,  elevating  her  eyebrows  with  an 
understanding  glance. 

"No,  he's  named  a'ready.  He's  named 'Manuel.  I 
named  him  first  thing." 

"  'Manuel  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Holditch,  wonderingly. 
"  Why,  that  sounds  kind  of  a  foreign  and  outlandish 
name  for  him,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"It's  in  the  Bible,"  said  Elizabeth;  "an'  I  seen  it  on 
the  communion  table  over  to  Turner's  Crossroads 


32  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

once.  '  The  stretchin'  out  of  his  wings  shall  fill  the 
breadth  of  thy  land,  O  'Manuel! ' 

"  I  understand  now — Immanuel.  It  means  God  with 
us."  Mrs.  Holditch  glanced  at  the  soft-heaving  wrap 
pings  on  the  bed  with  a  sigh.  "Dear  me,  it's  pretty 
hard  to  understand  the  dealings  of  the  Lord  some 
times!  " 

Elizabeth  laid  her  hand  on  the  good  woman's  plump 
arm.  "  'Rastus  is  jest  a-comin'  in,"  she  whispered  be 
seechingly.  "  If  you  could  say  anythin'  to  kind  of 
reconcile  him,  I'd  be  terrible  'bleeged  to  you,  Mis' 
Holditch." 

Erastus  Winch  shook  hands  with  the  minister's  wife, 
with  a  reluctant  widening  of  his  grim  mouth.  "You 
ain't  been  out  to  see  us  fur  quite  a  spell,"  he  began 
agreeably.  "  But  of  course,  as  I  was  tellin'  the  parson, 
las'  Sunday,  there's  them  'at  pays  more  fur  his  support 
'an  I  do;  an'  I  s'pose  they're  entitled  to  his  partic'lar 
'tention." 

"  I  believe  Mr.  Holditch  expects  to  see  all  the  mem 
bers  of  his  congregation  at  least  twice  a  year,"  replied 
the  lady,  with  becoming  meekness.  "  He's  been  very 
busy  this  week  with  funerals." 

"Yas,  it's  a  mighty  bad  season;  terrible  onhealthy. 
I've  been  laid  up  most  all  winter  with  one  thing  or 
'nother.  Crops  was  bad,  too,  an',  what  with  money 
scurser  'n  hen's  teeth,  an'  everythin'  way  up  in  gee, 
'tain't  a  very  good  time  to  incur  extry  expenses.  What 
do  you  say,  Mis'  Holditch  ?  " 

"It  would  depend  a  little  on  what  the  extra  expense 
was,"  said  Mrs.  Holditch,  cautiously. 

"Humph!"  ejaculated  Winch,  with  a  sour  look  at 
his  wife,  "  I  s'pose  you've  seen  it." 


STRETCHING  FORTH  OF  HIS  WINGS    33 

"Do  you  mean  the  baby?  Yes,  I've  just  seen  it. 
He's  a  fine  child;  he'll  soon  grow  into  a  strong,  active 
boy." 

"  He  won't  be  wuth  his  keep  fur  ten  years,"  growled 
Winch.  "  My  wife  here  is  set  on  keepin'  him;  but  I 
don't  want  him.  I've  been  thinkin'  of  consultin'  the 
parson  on  the  subjec'  of  a  man's  rulin'  his  own  house. 
That's  Bible,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  I  heard  Mr.  Holditch  say  that  a  likely  boy,  that  cost 
practically  nothing  to  raise,  was  a  good  investment  for 
a  farmer,"  observed  Mrs.  Holditch,  in  a  hard,  practical 
tone.  "You'd  have  his  services  till  he  was  of  age,  I 
suppose;  I  should  advise  you  to  keep  the  child." 

Mr.  Winch  had  been  engaged  in  cutting  a  liberal 
mouthful  of  plug  tobacco  with  a  clasp  knife.  He 
shook  his  head  with  a  surly  glance  at  his  wife;  his 
jaws  were  occupied  with  the  fragrant  weed,  but  they 
ceased  to  move  for  a  full  minute  in  the  light  of  the 
look  she  flashed  him  in  return;  the  same  unalterable 
determination  he  had  faced  once  before  shone  in  the 
faded  eyes. 

"  Wall,  I  dunno,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  guess  I'm  a 
blamed  fool  fur  bein'  so  soft-hearted;  but  jest  to  please 
you,  Mis'  Holditch,  I  reckon  I'll  hev  to  give  in 'bout  the 
boy.  Tain't  likely  he'll  ever  be  any  good  to  me;  an' 
Mis'  Winch  'ull  hev  to  look  out  'at  she  don't  neglect 
no  reg'lar  dooties  a-waitin'  on  him;  can't  put  up  with 
that  nohow,  an'  money  tight  as  'tis  now.  The  poor- 
house  '11  be  open  fur  quite  a  spell  yet,  an'  one  day'll  do 
as  well  's  'nother  as  fur  's  I'm  consarned." 


34  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Those  systematized  numerical  collections  of  facts 
known  as  statistics,  however  coldly  dull  they  may  ap 
pear,  are  the  concise  expression  of  prolonged  effort, 
the  colorless  residuum  in  life's  seething  alembic.  If  it 
be  stated,  for  example,  that  Elizabeth  Winch  has  fried 
some  fifteen  thousand  slices  of  pork;  that  she  has 
washed  dishes  five  thousand,  four  hundred  and 
seventy-five  times;  that  she  has  fed  the  chickens  and 
calves  three  thousand  times,  upon  which  occasions  she 
has  been  the  patient  recipient  of  some  twenty-seven 
thousand  rasping  complaints  from  her  yoke-fellow — 
all  this  since  the  December  morning  when  Immanuel 
first  opened  his  eyes  to  the  light,  it  may  be  simply  in 
ferred  that  a  period  of  five  years  has  been  added  to  the 
term  of  her  earthly  existence. 

Fortunately  for  Elizabeth,  as  for  many  another,  she 
was  not  accustomed  to  view  her  labors  from  the 
statistical  standpoint.  If  she  was  bound  to  her  narrow 
wheel  of  labor,  she  at  least  forbore  to  often  look  at  her 
chain.  At  times  her  wan  face  seemed  to  reflect  the 
rosy  glow  which  pulsed  in  the  round  cheeks  of  Im 
manuel. 

During  these  years  the  child  grew  in  strength  and 
beauty;  the  spreading  of  his  wings  had  indeed  come 
to  fill  the  whole  land  for  Elizabeth.  That  he  linked 
the  sordid  seen  with  the  celestial  unseen  she  never 
doubted;  the  memory  of  the  strangely  beautiful  face 
of  the  dead  mother  had  remained  with  her  in  the  guise 
of  a  living  presence.  She  came  to  regard  herself  as  in 
somewise  guided  and  directed  by  this  benign  intelli 
gence,  known  in  the  secret  of  her  own  heart  as  "his 
mother." 

"  She  couldn't  be  contented  in  no  heaven  whilst  he's 


STRETCHING  FORTH  OF  HIS  WINGS    35 

here,"  she  would  say  to  herself.  "More  especial  as 
she  kin  see  'at  1  ain't  no  ways  experienced  in  the 
fetchin'  up  of  children.  It  says  in  the  Bible  'at  they're 
all  ministerin'  sperits,  sent  forth  to  minister;  an'  that, 
I  take  it,  means  'at  they  ain't  allowed  to  stay  inside  no 
pearly  gates  a-singin'  an'  playin'  on  golden  harps  as 
long's  their  own  folks  needs  lookin'  after  here  below." 

This  curious  sense  of  intimate  and  helpful  com 
panionship  so  grew  upon  her  that  she  formed  the 
habit  of  conversing  familiarly  with  the  imagined  pres 
ence  while  about  her  work.  "Ain't  he  growin' 
perfec'Iy  wonderful  ? "  she  would  whisper,  stooping 
to  look  at  the  child  wrapped  in  the  rosy  sleep  of  baby 
hood.  "Jest  look  after  him  a  spell,  an'  keep  him 
asleep  ef  you  kin  whilst  1  step  out  to  feed  them 
chickens." 

The  unseen  mother  was  often  similarly  called  upon 
to  "keep  him  mighty  still  while  'Rastus  is  round;" 
and  many  were  the  fervent  outpourings  of  gratitude 
when  some  dreaded  crisis  was  safely  past. 

"What  in  under  the  sun  would  I  ha' done  ef  you 
hadn't  managed  to  quiet  him  down  jest  as  you  did  ?" 
she  whispered  on  one  occasion,  when  the  child's  loud 
crying  had  elicited  a  savage  threat  from  her  husband. 
"Seems  's'o  I'd  go  crazy;  but  land!  he  shet  right  up 
the  minute  he  laid  his  pretty  eyes  on  you!  I  seen  him 
a-lookin'  at  you  as  plain  as  day.  I  s'pose  mebbe 
your  wings — all  shiny  like — must  ha'  'tracted  his 
'tention!  " 

Erastus  Winch  appeared  as  unconscious  as  an  ani 
mal  of  the  heavenly  change  in  the  atmosphere  of  his 
home.  He  went  his  way  after  his  old  surly  fashion, 
and  for  the  most  part  paid  no  manner  of  attention  to 


36  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

the  child.  But  the  time  came  when  Elizabeth  de 
tected  a  speculative  gleam  in  his  dull  eyes  as  they 
rested  upon  the  boy.  Winch  was  smoking  his  pipe 
on  the  back  porch  on  a  summer  evening;  Elizabeth 
sat  on  the  steps  watching  Immanuel  as  he  industriously 
gathered  fragments  of  wood  in  a  basket. 

"What's  he  doin'P"  demanded  the  farmer,  remov 
ing  his  pipe  and  pointing  it  toward  the  child.  "  Why, 
'Rastus,  he's  gittin'  kindlin'  fur  me  to  use  in  the 
mornin',"  said  Elizabeth,  her  heart  beating  fast  with 
pleasure  at  this  token  of  tardy  interest.  "  He's  awful 
smart  fur  his  age,  'Manuel  is;  he  helps  me  all  the 
while.  This  mornin'  when  I  was  stemmin'  goose 
berries  fur  pies,  he  set  an'  worked  at  'em  as  stiddy  as 
I  did.  1  wish't  you'd  notice  him  a  little  more, 
'Rastus,"  she  added,  laying  her  hand  on  her  husband's 
knee. 

He  recognized  the  tentative  caress  with  a  scowl, 
continuing  to  puff  at  his  pipe  a  full  half-minute  before 
he  made  answer.  "I'm  a-goin'  to  take  consid'able 
notice  of  him  f'om  now  on  ef  he's  got  to  the  pint  whar 
he'll  be  useful,"  he  said,  rising  from  his  chair  and 
knocking  his  empty  pipe  against  the  door-post.  "It's 
'bout  time  I  was  beginnin'  to  realize  a  leetle  somethin' 
on  my  val'able  investment — he — he!  " 

He  paused  on  his  way  to  the  barn  to  look  more  nar 
rowly  at  the  child,  stooping  to  feel  his  arms  and  legs. 
"  Fur  all  the  world  as  if  he  was  a  colt  or  steer! "  mur 
mured  Elizabeth,  her  eyes  filling  with  indignant  tears. 
She  called  the  boy  sharply.  He  came  running  toward 
her,  his  curling  locks  flying  in  the  wind. 

"'Manuel!"  she  exclaimed,  and  held  him  fast,  her 
eyes  wide  with  sad  forebodings. 


STRETCHING  FORTH  OF  HIS  WINGS    37 

The  child  wound  his  arms  about  her  neck.  "  What 
is  it,  mummy  ?"  he  whispered. 

"Nothin'I"  said  Elizabeth,  shortly.  "Come  now, 
I'm  a-goin'  to  put  you  to  bed.  You  must  rest  while 
you  kin,  deary." 

The  boy  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height.  "  Here's 
lots  of  kindling,  mummy,"  he  said  joyously.  "To 
morrow  I'm  goin'  to  bring  water  from  the  spring.  I 
won't  spill  it! " 

"No— no,  child,"  said  Elizabeth,  shaking  her  head; 
"  I  don't  want  you  should  carry  water.  I'm  a-goin'  to 
sen'  you  to  school;  you've  got  to  get  learnin'.  Yes, 
I'm  a-goin'  to  sen'  you  to  school  to-morrow." 

She  knelt  by  the  open  window  for  a  long  time  after 
the  child  had  fallen  asleep,  looking  out  with  anxious, 
questioning  eyes  into  the  rosy  splendors  of  the  even 
ing  sky  athwart  which  swallows  flitted  by  twos  and 
threes,  crying  shrilly  to  their  fellows  of  night's  ap 
proach.  "I  wish  'Rastus  wa'n't  so  hard,"  she  mur 
mured,  wiping  away  one  or  two  slow  tears;  "seems 
's'o  he  was  made  of  stone.  Twa'n't  always  so  with 
him;  when  we  was  first  married  an'  come  to  this 
house  to  live,  I  remember  he  says  to  me— 'twas  right 
down  on  the  back  porch  of  a  summer  evening  like  this 
— 'Liz'beth,  he  says,  ef  thar's  anythin'  I  kin  git  fur  you, 
or  do  fur  you,  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  name  it.  He 
was  awful  kind  in  them  days,  'Rastus  was;  an'  I  was 
willin'  an'  anxious  to  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  fur 
him.  I  don't  know  how  it  come — I  didn't  take  notice 
— I  know  I  never  stopped  a-tryin'  to  please  him. 
But " 

She  started  to  her  feet  with  a  faint  exclamation  of 
dismay  at  sound  of  his  slow,  heavy  step  at  the  back 


38  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

door.  "It  got  dark  so  kin'  of  gradual  like,  husban',  I 
didn't  think  to  light  up,"  she  said  apologetically,  as  she 
struck  a  match  in  the  dark  kitchen;  "  'slong  as  I'm 
alone,  thinks  s'  I,  they  ain't  no  use  in  wastin'  ker'- 
sene." 

"  Humph! "  growled  the  man,  "I  know  what  you 
was  doin'  well  'nough.  I  reckon  I'm  jest  a  leetle  mite 
smarter  'an  you  take  me  for,  Mis'  Winch.  Now  I'm 
a-goin'  to  set  my  foot  down  on  this  'ere  foolin'  once 
an'  fur  all,  an'  you  might's  well  put  yer  min'  to  it  first 
as  las'." 

"I — I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  'Rastus,"  fal 
tered  Elizabeth,  with  an  imploring  look.  "I  ain't 
never  neglected  nothin'  fur — fur  him;  you  know  I 
ain't.  I  never  had  better  luck  with  the  chickens 
an' " 

"That  ain't  the  p'int,"  he  interrupted,  dropping 
heavily  into  the  one  rocking-chair.  "I've  had  my  eyes 
peeled  onto  you — an'  him,  too — fur  quite  a  spell  back, 
an'  I  see  'at  yer  idees  wants  overhaulin'  on  the  sub- 
jec'.  You  ain't  a-fetchin'  up  no  fine  gent'man,  Mis' 
Winch,  'at's  a-goin'  to  dress  in  broadcloth  an'  patent 
leathers  when  he's  growed,  any  more  'an  I'm  a-settin' 
out  to  raise  prize-winnin'  trotters.  I'm  a-raisin'  useful 
critters  fur  the  farm,  an'  that's  what  you  set  out  to  do; 
but  I  guess  you  kin'  of  los'  track  of  the  idee  all  these 
years — eh  ?" 

Elizabeth  moistened  her  dry  lips  with  a  furtive  look 
at  the  grim  face  opposite.  "  You  ain't  serious,  'Ras 
tus,  in  namin'  a  child  'at's  got  an  immortal  soul  along 
side  of  dumb  critters,  be  ye  ?  'Course  " — she  made 
haste  to  add — "he'll  help's  soon's  he's  big  'nough. 
He  doos  's  much  as  ever  he  kin  now.  I — I  was 


STRETCHING  FORTH  OF  HIS  WINGS    39 

thinkin'  we'd  ought  to  sen'  him  to  school,  beginnin1 
to-morrow." 

"You  don't  say,"  sneered  her  husband.  "You're 
gittin'  awful  smart  an'  knowin*  lately,  ain't  you  ? 
Mebbe  we'd  better  sen'  him  to  college  an'  make  a  per- 
fessor  outen  him.  Ef  you  git  to  thinkin'  so,  Mis' 
Winch,  why  o'  course  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say.  I 
gin  in  to  ye  once,  an'  so  you  guess  you  c'n  come  it 
over  me  every  time;  but  I  reckon  you've  got  the 
wrong  pig  by  the  ear  this  time.  Now  ef  you'll  give 
me  your  'tention,  Mis'  Winch,  I'll  tell  ye  what  ye'r 
a-goin'  to  do — beginnin'  to-morrer.  First  off,  you'll 
cut  that  redic'lous  mop  of  hair,  an'  then  — 

"  I  was  a-goin'  to  cut  his  hair,  'Rastus;  but  it  looked 
so  pret  — 

"I'm  a-talkin',  Mis'  Winch.  After  his  head's  in 
order  you  c'n  sen'  him  out  to  the  barn  to  me.  I'll  fin' 
somethin'  fur  him  to  do.  That's  the  kin'  of  school 
he'll  git  fur  a  spell." 

Elizabeth's  pillow  absorbed  more  than  one  bitter 
tear  that  night.  "Oh  Lord!  "  she  groaned,  when  the 
loud  husky  breathing  at  her  side  revealed  her  slackened 
chain.  "Oh  Lord!  You  love  him  more'n  I  do — more 
even  'an  she  doos,  an'  you  kin  take  care  of  him. 
Don't  let  'Rastus  be  ha'sh  with  him,  Lord,  'cause  he 
ain't  much  more'n  a  baby!  Oh  Lord — Lord — Lord!" 
The  anguish  of  her  fears  found  vent  in  dry,  inarticulate 
sobs,  which  penetrated  the  wakeful  ear  of  Omnipo 
tence  in  guise  of  compelling  petition.  The  answer 
was  peace  and  deep  sleep. 


CHAPTER  IV 
A  Squaring  of  Accounts 

HE  wants  you  should  help  him  out  to  the 
barn,  honey,"  said  Elizabeth.  "That's  why 
mummy  cut  yer  hair;  big  boys  don't  want  no  curls, 
do  they?" 

The  child  looked  soberly  at  the  long,  bright  tresses 
which  hung  from  Elizabeth's  trembling  fingers.  He 
shook  his  head,  his  dark  eyes  sparkling.  "I'm  glad 
I'm  big,"  he  said,  squaring  his  small  shoulders.  "I 
like  to  help! " 

Twenty  times  during  the  morning  did  Elizabeth 
strain  eyes  and  ears  for  some  token  that  all  was  well 
with  her  darling.  "I  s'pose  she's  with  him,"  she 
sighed,  while  a  hot  tear  dropped  on  the  potato  she  was 
peeling.  "  But  I  dunno  what  in  creation  she  c'd  do  fur 
him  ef  'Rastus  gits  mad.  He's  allers  awful  ha'sh  with 
colts  when  he  breaks  'em  to  harness;  I  remember  one 
time  he  killed  a  steer  'at  wouldn't  turn  into  the  yard 
jest  when  he  wanted  it  to.  Land!  I  can't  stan'  it  an 
other  minute  nohow,  I  mus'  see  what  he's  doin'!" 

The  barn  was  empty,  but  a  heap  of  corn-cobs  and  a 
measure  of  shelled  corn  revealed  the  initial  task. 
"With  his  baby  fingers!"  muttered  Elizabeth,  sha 
king  with  indignation;  "they'll  be  fairly  raw!  Well, 
I  kin  do  that,  an'  I  will  after  this." 

She  crept  cautiously  up  into  the  loft  and  looked 
away  across  the  fields.  "  'Rastus  '11  be  plantin'  fodder 

40 


A  SQUARING  OF  ACCOUNTS  41 

corn  this  mornin',  I  reckon,"  she  whispered,  then 
caught  her  breath  in  a  quick  sob.  "Yes,  I  kin  see 
him — in  his  little  pink  apern!  'Rastus  is  makin'  him 
drop  corn.  The  sun's  turrible  hot,  an'  he  ain't  used  to 
it  neither.  Oh,  Lord — Lord!" 

At  noon  time  the  small  head  drooped  wearily  over 
the  full  plate.  "  I  don't  feel  hungry— very,"  said  the 
child,  smiling  bravely  into  Elizabeth's  anxious  face; 
"  but  I  guess  1  helped  a  lot! " 

"You're  a  durned  sight  more  trouble  'an  you're 
wuth,  that's  what  you  be,"  observed  Winch,  as  he 
shoved  back  from  the  table.  "You'll  hev  to  do  better 
'n  ye  did  this  forenoon,  or  I'll  try  what  lickin'  '11  do." 
With  that  he  lighted  his  pipe  and  strode  out  toward 
the  barn.  To  Elizabeth's  immense  relief,  she  presently 
saw  him  drive  away  toward  the  village. 

"I  guess  you'd  better  lay  down  on  the  lounge  an' 
rest  a  spell,"  she  said  to  Immanuel.  "It's  nice  an' 
cool  in  the  settin'  room.  Come,  honey,  I'll  bake  you  a 
big  cookie  with  currants  in  bimeby." 

The  child  slipped  off  his  chair  with  a  sigh;  his  eyes 
wandered  wistfully  to  the  open  door. 

"Would  you  drather  go  out,  'Manuel?"  asked 
Elizabeth,  tenderly.  "It's  pretty  hot  in  the  sun,  but  I 
guess  there's  some  strawb'ris  gettin'  ripe  down  by  the 
brook  where  it's  shady." 

She  watched  the  little  cropped  head  as  it  bobbed  in 
and  out  amid  the  lush  tangle  of  greenery  which  over 
hung  the  roadway.  An  oriole  called  softly  to  its  mate 
from  the  top  of  the  tall  elm  which  held  its  swinging 
cradle;  a  bumblebee  yellow  with  pollen  boomed  past 
in  the  sunshine;  crowds  of  bright-faced  flowers  and 
tasseled  grasses  wagged  their  young  heads  in  the 


42  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

<t 

warm  breeze.  Elizabeth  heard  nothing — saw  nothing 
of  it  all.  She  turned  back  to  her  kitchen  and  fell  to 
scraping  an  iron  kettle  with  feverish  energy.  "Oh, 
Lord — Lord!"  she  groaned,  to  the  discordant  accom 
paniment  of  the  broken  knife,  "I'm  awful  'fraid  of 
what's  comin'!  " 

Immanuel  trotted  soberly  along  the  dusty  road  till  he 
came  to  the  brook,  which  lay  across  the  fields  like  a 
twisted  ribbon,  touched  here  and  there  with  a  glint  of 
silver  where  its  busy  ripples  caught  the  blaze  of  the 
sun.  The  child  slipped  down  the  steep  bank  into  the 
jubilant  life  of  the  meadow.  A  warm,  sweet  smell  of 
wild  strawberries,  blent  with  a  thousand  subtler  fra 
grances  of  unfolding  buds  and  full-blown,  passionate 
flowers,  greeted  him  like  a  kindly  presence.  He 
stretched  his  small,  tired  body  on  the  soft  earth  with  a 
deep  sigh  of  content,  all  the  vague  unhappiness  of  the 
morning  falling  away  from  his  spirit  like  a  torn  gar 
ment.  •  Thousands  of  fluttering  leaves  shot  through 
with  emerald  splendor  spread  a  cool  shelter  above  his 
head;  peace  sang  in  the  low  gurgle  of  the  stream  and 
breathed  in  the  caressing  wind.  The  child  listened 
drowsily,  and  presently  the  sound  of  the  brook  carried 
him  away  into  a  dream. 

So  Elizabeth  found  him.  "  Poor  lamb!  "  she  sighed, 
and  wakened  him  to  the  sight  of  a  big  ginger-bread 
man,  plentifully  besprinkled  with  currants. 

At  six  o'clock  of  a  summer's  morning  a  corn-field  is 
a  place  of  enchantment,  even  if  one  be  encumbered 
with  a  hoe,  the  handle  of  which  is  higher  than  one's 
head.  The  long  arching  aisles  are  full  of  gleaming 
lights,  where  the  sun  strikes  through  the  blue-green 
leaves;  the  wind  urges  them  to  mysterious  whisper- 


A  SQUARING  OF  ACCOUNTS  43 

ings.  Crowds  of  yellow  butterflies — those  innocent 
lovers  of  midsummer — float  in  mid  air.  Higher  up 
little  flocks  of  snow-white  clouds  wander  peacefully  in 
the  blue. 

Immanuel  dared  not  look  up  to  watch  them;  there 
were  too  many  lusty  weeds  growing  in  the  shallow 
trenches  under  the  waving  ribbons  of  the  corn.  Some 
of  them  stoutly  resisted  the  big  hoe  in  the  small  hands. 
It  appeared  that  a  personal  encounter  was  necessary; 
but  if  a  long,  fibrous  tap  root  has  taken  firm  hold  of 
the  tenacious  clay  beneath  the  crumbling  loam,  and  its 
crown  of  green  leaves  be  succulent,  it  sometimes  hap 
pens  that  one  may  decapitate  a  weed  without  destroy 
ing  it.  Having  added  a  fraction  of  this  fact  to  his 
stock  of  agricultural  knowledge,  the  boy  beheaded 
many  weeds  with  joyful  haste,  burying  the  telltale 
stumps  of  the  foe  in  the  loose  earth.  Thus  he  trav 
eled  down  the  long  row,  pausing  now  and  again  to 
straighten  his  aching  shoulders  with  a  long  breath  of 
satisfaction. 

Through  the  twinkling,  green  leaves,  the  heavy, 
stoop-shouldered  figure  of  his  taskmaster  could  be 
seen  approaching  in  the  opposite  direction.  The 
farmer  was  cutting  and  thrusting  thither  and  yon  with 
a  mixture  of  skill  and  strength,  which  the  child  re 
garded  with  honest  admiration.  He  glanced  down  at 
his  own  small  person,  righteous  ambition  swelling  in 
his  soul.  "I  am  growing,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and 
1  am  learning — every  day,  mummy  says  so!"  Many 
times  during  the  past  weeks  he  had  sobbed  himself  to 
sleep;  but  always  the  morning  brought  the  white  page 
of  a  new  day. 

Erastus  Winch  had  also  paused  to  mop  his  wet  fore- 


44  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

head  and  ease  his  aching  back;  during  this  period  of 
respite  he  fixed  his  savage  eyes  on  the  small  toiling 
figure  in  the  adjoining  furrow.  In  another  instant  his 
heavy  hand  descended  with  crushing  force  on  the  del 
icate  shoulders.  "Ye  tarnal  fool!"  he  shouted,  his 
face  purple  with  rage.  "I  seen  yer!  ye  needn't  try 
to  lie  out  of  it — ye  doggoned  beggar  brat!  A-pullin' 
off  the  tops  of  the  weeds  an'  hidin'  'em — 1  seen  yer! " 

There  is  no  spectacle  on  earth  more  revolting  than 
that  of  helpless  childhood  cowering  beneath  the  brute 
strength  God  has  set  for  its  defense.  Woe  is  decreed 
for  the  man  who  thus  offends  one  of  the  little  ones. 
Aye,  let  a  millstone  be  hanged  about  his  neck  and  let 
him  be  drowned  in  the  depths  of  the  sea;  it  were  bet 
ter  for  him!  There  was  no  visible  presence  in  the 
corn-field;  no  hand  appeared  to  stay  the  threatened 
blows,  yet  on  a  sudden  Erastus  Winch  stopped  short 
in  his  torrent  of  abuse  and  stared  open-mouthed  to  the 
right  and  left. 

"I  am  sorry,"  faltered  the  child.  "1  didn't  know 
the  weeds  would  grow  again.  I'll  dig  up  all  the  roots. 
I'm  sorry  I  didn't  know." 

"Wall,  you'll  be  a  durned  sight  sorrier  than  you  be 
now,  time  I  git  through  with  ye!"  growled  the  man. 
"Now  you  dig  them  weeds,  roots  an'  all;  I'll  see  'at 
you  don't  never  furgit  'bout  it  agin,  when  I  git  ye  up 
to  the  barn!" 

"  You'll  be  needin'  some  help  for  harvestin'  this  week, 
won't  you,  'Rastus  ?"  asked  Elizabeth,  as  she  seta  plat 
ter  of  steaming  beef  and  vegetables  before  her  husband 
at  noon.  "  Billy  Giddings  was  here  this  mornin';  he's 
lookin'  fur  a  job.  I  tol'  him  — 

"I  seen  him,"  interrupted  Winch,  spearing  a  potato 


A  SQUARING  OF  ACCOUNTS  45 

with  an  iron  fork.  "He's  comin'  to-morrer  at  sun 
up." 

Elizabeth  involuntarily  glanced  at  Immanuel,  who 
was  washing  his  hands  at  the  back  door. 

"We're  goin'  to  tackle  the  ten  acre  lot  first,"  pur 
sued  Winch.  "The  boy  thar  c'n  take  a  holt  of  the 
pertaters,  ef  he  ain't  too  lame  come  to-morrer." 

Elizabeth  turned  her  face  aside  to  conceal  the  look  of 
satisfaction  that  crept  over  it.  She  could  hoe  potatoes, 
and  the  field  was  well  out  of  sight  of  the  ten  acre  lot. 
"Come  in  to  dinner,  honey,"  she  said  to  the  child; 
"  I've  got  some  nice  cherry  pie." 

"  You  ain't  got  none  fur  him,"  said  Winch,  speaking 
thickly  through  a  big  mouthful.  "  That  young  feller's 
a-goin'  to  git  his  belly  full  o'  somethin'  'sides  pie,  's 
quick's  I  git  through  eatin'." 

Elizabeth  gripped  the  back  of  her  chair.  "What's 
he  done  to  anger  ye,  'Rastus  ?"  she  faltered.  "He — 
he's  nothin'  but  a  child,  husban'.  You  furgit  'at  he's 
only " 

"1  don't  furgit  nothin',  Mis'  Winch;  I  ain't  the  fur- 
gittin'  kin'.  Fetch  on  yer  pie,  will  ye;  I  ain't  got  no 
time  to  fool  away." 

Elizabeth  turned  blindly.  "  Here's  the  pie,  'Rastus," 
she  said  huskily.  Then  she  walked  to  the  door  with 
sudden  determination.  "'Manuel,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "don't  ye  want  to  go  down  to  the  spring  an' 
fetch  mummy  a  pitcher  of  nice,  cool  drinkin'  water; 
there  ain't  a  drop  in  the  house." 

Winch  dropped  his  knife  and  fork  with  a  clatter. 
"You're  a-lyin'!"  he  burst  out.  "Yer  bucket's  full, 
an'  ye  know  it.  Durn  ye!  you  c'n  come  back  here; 
I'll  ten'  to  yer  case  now!"  The  last  words  were  ad- 


46  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

dressed  to  Immanuel,  who,  with  ready  obedience,  had 
started  for  the  spring.  "  Mummy!"  cried  the  child, 
his  eyes  wide  with  terror.  "Come  on!"  shouted 
Winch,  seizing  a  heavy  horsewhip,  which  stood  in  a 
corner.  "I'll  larn  ye  both  who's  boss  in  this  house!" 

Elizabeth  caught  imploringly  at  her  husband's  arm. 
"  'Rastus!  "  she  begged,  "don'tye — don't!  Fur  God's 
sake — 'Rastus!  Fur  the  sake  of  our  own  child  'at's 
dead — don't  ye  tech  him!  " 

Without  a  word,  the  man  wrenched  himself  loose 
from  the  clinging  hands.  In  another  minute  Elizabeth 
heard  the  heavy  door  of  the  barn  shut  to  with  a  bang. 
"  My  God— he'll  kill  him!  "  she  muttered,  wringing  her 
hands  weakly. 

She  darted  into  the  road.  There  was  no  one  in  sight, 
but  from  beyond  the  crest  of  the  hill  there  arose  the 
faint  intermittent  creak  and  rattle  of  wagon  wheels. 
The  vehicle  itself  shortly  hove  into  view.  Elizabeth 
ran  toward  it  wildly. 

It  was  a  long  wagon,  painted  black;  the  man  who 
drove  the  single  white  horse  sat  stiffly  erect.  He  wore 
black  clothes,  and  interposed  the  shelter  of  a  black  um 
brella  betwixt  the  fierce  rays  of  the  July  sun  and  his 
uncovered  head;  a  straw  hat  of  the  same  sombre  hue, 
albeit  tempered  by  age  to  a  dubious  brown,  reposed 
on  the  seat  beside  him.  In  the  bed  of  the  wagon,  a 
wrinkled  oilcloth,  also  of  rusty  black,  imperfectly  con 
cealed  the  outlines  of  a  long  box. 

Elizabeth  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  smothered 
scream.  'It's  an  awful  bad  sign!"  she  muttered. 
Then  the  more  urgent  fear  conquered.  "Mr.  Dundor'" 
she  called;  "  fur  pity's  sake  do  stop  a  minit!  " 

The  driver  of  the  wagon  drew  up  at  once.     "  Is  that 


A  SQUARING  OF  ACCOUNTS  47 

you,  Mis'  Winch?  I  declare  I  scarcely  knew  you!  I 
was  just  on  my  way  to  — 

"Don't  wait  a  minit!"  cried  Elizabeth  wildly. 
"  He'll  kill  the  child  ef  somebody  don't  stop  him!  Fur 
the  land's  sake  hurry!  I'll  hold  the  horse!  " 

The  undertaker  scanned  the  flushed  face  of  the 
woman  in  obvious  perplexity. 

"It's  'Manuel!  He's  done  somethin' — I  don't  know 
what — an'  'Rastus  got  mad  at  him.  He's  got  him  in 
the  barn  now  a-lickin'  him !  He's  tumble  ha'sh,  'Rastus 
is.  Go  an'  knock  on  the  barn  door,  do — I  beg  of  ye! 
Tell  him  you  called  to  see  him  'bout  somethin'!  " 

"Why — ee,  Mis'  Winch,  I'd  like  to  'bleege  you,  I 
would  really,  but  I  can't  say  'at  I  feel  called  upon  to— 
ah — interfere  in  a  case  of  fambly  discipline.  Who'd 
I  understan'  you  to  say  was  gettin'  c'rrected  ?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Dundor,  it's  'Manuel;  an'  he's  only  six 
years  old.  You  know  'Rastus,  how  tumble  ha'sh  he's 
allers  been!  Don't  wait  another  minit!  Please  get 
out!  I — I'll  do  most  any  thin'  fur  you,  ef  you  only 
will!" 

"  'Manuel  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Dundor  with  exasperating 
deliberation.  "  Why  didn't  I  hear  you'd  named  that 
there  child  found  in  your  - 

"Yes,  that's  him!  Won't  you  go?  God  bless  ye, 
Liph  Dundor! " 

Mr.  Dundor  climbed  stiffly  down  over  the  wheel,  his 
face  curiously  mottled  as  if  from  the  stirring  of  some 
strenuous  inward  motive.  "The  mare'll  stan'  all 
right,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  woman.  "I  guess  if  I 
was  you  I'd  make  myself  scurce.  Twon't  do  to  let 
him  mistrust  what  we're  up  to."  He  made  his  way 
through  the  tangle  of  blossoming  mayweed,  which 


48  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

bordered  the  road,  the  pungent  odor  bringing  an  un 
accustomed  tear  to  his  eyes.  "Seein'  it's  her  young 
one,  I'll  do  it,"  he  muttered.  "It'll  kind  of  square  ac 
counts  along  of  that  casket."  He  bent  his  head  to  lis 
ten,  then  brought  down  his  whip-handle  in  a  smart 
rat-tat  on  the  closed  door  of  the  barn.  A  wailing  sob 
from  within  caused  him  to  repeat  the  operation  with 
urgent  emphasis. 

This  time  the  door  flew  wide,  and  Winch  stood  on 
the  threshold,  a  threateningly  belligerent  look  on  his 
big-featured  face.  "  Wha'd  yer  want  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"Why,  gosh  old  hemlock,  neighbor!  but  I'm 
mighty  glad  to  find  ye  so  easy,"  began  Mr.  Dundor, 
with  a  free  and  exuberant  friendliness  of  manner.  "I 
was  just  on  my  way  over  to  Jabez  Turnerses'  with  a 
fust-class  casket  for  ol'  Mis'  Turner — I  dunno  as  you've 
heard  'at " 

"  I  don't  see  as  that's  any  of  my  biz,"  growled  Winch, 
laying  hold  on  the  door,  with  the  manifest  intention  of 
closing  it  in  his  visitor's  face.  "  I  ain't  got  no  time  to 
fool  away  gassin'." 

"  Hold  on  a  minit,  neighbor — not  s'  fast! "  cried  Mr. 
Dundor,  with  infinite  tact.  "That's  just  what  it  is — a 
little  matter  of  business  this  time;  it'll  fetch  you  in 
mebbe — half  a  dollar.  That's  worth  a  word  or  two — 
eh?" 

Winch  cast  a  frowning  glance  over  his  shoulder,  then 
he  stepped  out  and  set  his  back  against  the  closed  door. 
"Wall!  "he  ejaculated  with  a  tentative  relaxation  of 
his  grim  mouth. 

"As  I  was  remarkin',"  observed  Mr.  Dundor,  re 
suming  something  of  the  solemnity  incident  to  his  pro 
fession,  "I'm  on  my  way  to  Turnerses',  with  a  fust- 


A  SQUARING  OF  ACCOUNTS  49 

class,  a-number-one  casket  for  ol'  Mis'  Turner,  'at 
passed  away  yiste'day  to  a  better  Ian'  in  an  apoplectic 
fit;  1  dunno  as  you've  heard  the  sad  intelligence  ?" 

"I  ain't  heerd  it,"  said  the  other  doggedly,  "an' 
what's  more,  1  don't  keer  now  't  I  hev  heerd.  Them 
Turners  was  always  a  meechin'  lot.  I  ain't  never  took 
no  stock  in  any  of  'em." 

"  They  are  a  weak  set  and  that's  a  fac',"  acquiesced 
Mr.  Dundor  pleasantly.  "  They  ain't  none  of  'em  long 
for  this  vale  of  tears,  I  reckon.  That's  why  I  stopped 
here.  I  got  started  with  the  casket,  an'  thinks  s'  I, 
when  I  git  there,  like  enough  there  won't  be  a  soul 
'bout  the  place  able  to  help  me  in  with  it.  I  want  you 
should  get  onto  the  wagon  with  me  an'  ride  out.  If 
half  a  dollar'll  be  any  injucement,  why " 

"  Make  it  a  dollar  an'  I'll  go  with  ye,"  said  Winch. 
"You  c'n  put  it  int'  the  gen'ral  expenses,"  he  added 
with  a  wink.  "I'll  never  be  able  to  hev  a  fun'ral  to 
my  place;  I  ain't  rich  'nough." 

The  two  men  were  walking  slowly  toward  the 
wagon,  when  Winch  caught  sight  of  the  anxious  face 
of  Elizabeth.  "  Gol-durn  it  all!  "  he  muttered.  "I'd 
like  to  hev  forgot  what  I  was  doin'.  I'm  'bleeged  to 
hev  a  word  with  my  wife  afore  I  go." 

He  thrust  his  shaggy  head  in  at  the  open  window. 
"I  seen  yer — a-peekin',"  he  growled.  "Say,  Mis' 
Winch,  I'm  goin'  out  fur  a  spell;  you  leave  that  thar 
boy  alone  whilst  I'm  gone,  d'ye  hear?  Don't  you  go 
nigh  him." 

"Why,  where  you  goin',  'Rastus  ? "  asked  Elizabeth, 
with  well  feigned  surprise.  "  Ain't  that  Liph  Dundor  ? 
I  was  jest  a-lookin'  to  see  who  'twas." 

"  Give  me  my  coat  thar  an'  shet  yer  gab,"  responded 


50  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Winch,  agreeably.  "  An'  say!  If  I  ain't  home  by  four 
o'clock,  you  c'n  hev  him  drive  up  the  cows;  you  c'n 
milk." 

Elizabeth  stood  in  the  kitchen  door  watching  the  de 
parture  of  the  black  wagon  drawn  by  the  white  horse; 
the  mournful  creak  and  rattle  of  the  slow-revolving 
wheels  floated  back  to  her  on  the  hot  breeze.  "  My!  " 
she  murmured,  shaking  her  head  with  a  deep  sigh ;  "  it 
was  an  awful  bad  sign — a-meetin'  that  coffin  plumb  in 
the  middle  of  the  road !  I'm  most  afraid  to  go  out  there 
an' look!" 


CHAPTER  V 
Revelation 

ELIZABETH  found  the  child  sitting  motionless  in 
the  haymow  where  his  mother  had  died.  Long, 
cloudy  shafts  of  yellow  light  descended  upon  his 
bowed  shoulders  from  the  one  window  high  up  in  the 
dim  wall.  To  the  tearful  eyes  of  the  woman  this 
dazzling  glory  appeared  like  mighty  wings  stretching 
up  and  away  from  the  lonely  little  figure.  "Oh, 
'Manuel,"  she  whispered,  "look  up,  an'  speak  to 
mummy! " 

The  child  threw  his  arms  about  her  neck  with  a  little 
sob.  Elizabeth  covered  the  small  tear-stained  face 
with  passionate  kisses.  "He's  gone,  deary,"  she 
whispered;  "an'  he  won't  be  back  fur  a  spell.  Come 
in  with  mummy  an'  eat  some  dinner;  I  saved  a  nice 
little  pie  a  purpose  fur  you." 

The  boy  shook  his  head  and  struggled  to  his  feet. 
"  I  want  to  go,"  he  said;  "  I  want  to  go  outdoors." 

Elizabeth  involuntarily  drew  back  before  the  dumb 
pain  in  the  childish  eyes.  Then  she  stretched  out  her 
arms  longingly.  "I  want  to  tell  you  somethin',  "Man 
uel,"  she  pleaded.  "Jest  wait  a  minit,  deary!  I  didn't 
mean  to  tell  you  till  you  was  growed  up;  but  I  reckon 
I  will— though  I  don't  sca'cely  know  what  good  it'll 
do." 

She  paused,  picking  absently  at  the  folds  of  her 
51 


52  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

checkered  apron.  "Ef  'Rastus  was  yer  father,"  she 
burst  out  at  length,  "it  'ud  be  diffrunt!  You  ain't 
like  us;  I  allus  knew  it,  an'  the  breed's  more'n  the 
pastur'  every  time.  Yes — if  you  was  like  him  it  'ud 
all  be  diffrunt." 

"Who  is  my  father?" 

The  question  brought  Elizabeth's  wandering 
thoughts  to  a  standstill.  "Your  father?"  she  re 
peated.  "Why,  1—  Her  face  whitened  a  little 
under  the  impact  of  a  sudden,  startling  thought  which 
had  reached  her  from  out  of  the  unseen.  "  'Manuel," 
she  said,  solemnly,  "I'm  a-goin'  to  fetch  somethin' 
out  of  the  spare  room;  you  stay  here  till  I  come 
back." 

When  she  returned  she  carried  the  russet-bound 
Bible,  wrapped  carefully  in  a  white  cloth.  "This  'ere 
Bible's  yourn,  "Manuel,"  she  said,  reverently  un 
wrapping  it.  "I  was  'lottin'  to  give  it  to  you  when 
you  was  growed;  but  I'm  goin'  to  give  it  to  you  now. 
This  book  was  yer  ma's;  it  tells  all  about  yer  Father 
which  is  in  heaven." 

The  child  took  the  book  in  his  hands,  lifting  grave, 
questioning  eyes  to  the  woman's  flushed  face.  "You 
are  mother,"  he  said,  simply. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  breathlessly,  "as  fur's  lovin'  you's 
concerned,  I  be.  But  your  own  mother  was  a  beauti 
ful  lady;  she  died  when  you  was  a  teenty  baby.  I've 
been  a-takin'  care  of  you  for  her.  She's  with  you 
most  all  the  while,  times  'at  I  can't  be." 

"Yes,"  said  Immanuel,  nodding  emphatically.  Eliz 
abeth  leaned  forward  to  peer  into  the  downcast  face. 
"  But  you  ain't  never  seen  her,  deary." 

The  child  shook   his  head.     "Sometimes  I  dream 


REVELATION  53 

of  a  beautiful  lady,"  he  said.  "She  loves  me  very 
much." 

"Yes,  that's  her,"  sighed  Elizabeth,  patting  the  little 
brown  hand  which  was  folded  in  both  of  hers.  "She 
was  han'some  as  a  pictur'!  But  yer  Father,  'Manuel, 
loves  you  a  sight  more  'n  either  of  us  women-folks. 
I  couldn't  begin  to  tell  you  how  much  store  he  doos 
set  by  you.  I'm  a-goin'  to  read  somethin'  out  this  'ere 
book  right  now,  then  I'll  have  to  go  in  an'  wash  the 
dishes.  Bimeby  you  kin  read  it  yerself;  you  know 
yer  letters  a'ready,  an'  I  mean  you  shall  have  learnin'." 

"I  know  all  the  words  on  the  mowin'-m'chine,  an' 
most  all  the  words  on  this  page,"  said  the  child, 
eagerly  producing  a  fragment  of  newspaper  from  his 
pocket.  "  I  found  it  in  the  road,"  he  explained;  "an" 
the  sounds  of  the  letters  make  words.  I  found  it  out." 

"  Fur  the  land's  sake,  child,  you'd  really  ought  to 
hev  schoolin',"  was  Elizabeth's  comment.  "  Now  you 
listen,  'cause  my  dish-water's  gettin'  stun  cold." 

She  read  from  the  sixth  chapter  of  Matthew's  gospel, 
and  on  through  a  part  of  the  seventh,  pausing  now 
and  again  to  wrestle  with  a  difficult  pronunciation, 
then  gliding  on  triumphantly  through  an  easier  passage. 
"There!"  she  exclaimed,  shutting  the  book  with  a 
long  breath;  "them's  the  words  of  Jesus;  you've 
heard  of  him  frequent  a'ready.  He  knew  more'n 
any  other  man  'bout  yer  Father.  Somewhere's  I  re 
member  'at  he  said  you  was  to  call  no  man  on  airth 
father,  'cause  there  is  one  'at  is  your  Father  in  heaven." 

"  Where  is  heaven  ? "    asked  the  child  wonderingly. 

"It's  up "  began  Elizabeth,  then  she  stopped 

short,  a  strange  look  of  triumph  dawning  in  her  dim 
eyes.  "It  certainly  says  in  this  'ere  Bible,  that  yer 


54  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Father  is  in  heaven — same's  I  read,  '  Our  Father  which 
art  in  heaven.'  An'  ag'in  it  says  'at  he's  everywhere. 
He  made  everythin'  you  kin  see — everythin'  pretty  'at 
you  set  store  by,  flowers  an'  butterflies  an'  the  brook, 
yes,  an'  strawb'rries  an'  apples  an'  sich — everythin'. 
Now  it  jest  come  into  my  mind,  tho  I  ain't  never 
thought  so  before,  that  if  yer  heavenly  Father's  every- 
wheres,  then  heaven  mus'  be — everywheres  'at  he  is." 

"Am  I  in  heaven  now?"  asked  the  child,  in  an 
awed  whisper.  "  Is  my  Father  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Lord,  don't  ye  let  me  tell  him  anythin'  'at  ain't 
so!"  petitioned  Elizabeth,  silently.  Then  with  sud 
den  illumination,  she  cried:  "Yes,  'Manuel,  you  be  in 
heaven  now;  'cause  it  says  'at  in  him  we  live  an' 
move  an'  have  our  bein',  an'  there  can't  be  anything 
better  than  that  anywheres!  I  don't  seem  to  sense  it 
allers  when  things  go  cross-ways  in  the  kitchen,  but 
mebbe  you  km,  ef  you  begin  when  you're  little  an' 
think  'bout  it  frequent." 

With  that  she  slipped  away  in  sudden  trepidation, 
fancying  that  she  heard  the  sound  of  voices  from  with 
out.  "If  I've  said  anythin'  'at  ain't  so,  Lord,"  she 
ejaculated,  as  she  hurried  along  the  narrow  path,  "jest 
see  'at  he  furgits  it!  I  furgit  easier  'n  I  remember,  an' 
there's  times  'at  I'm  awful  glad  of  it! — Good  land!  I 
wonder  who  that  is,  an'  my  dishes  a-settin'  round." 

Two  female  figures  were  standing  under  the  shelter 
of  the  stoop  at  the  side  door;  while  beneath  the  shade 
of  the  big  soft  maple  a  superannuated  sorrel  horse 
nibbled  languidly  at  the  fence  post.  "Well — well! 
Mis'  Winch,  here  you  be  at  last!  "  cried  the  visitors  in 
chorus.  "We've  been  a-knockin'  fur  quite  a  spell," 
continued  one  of  them,  a  stout,  purple-faced  lady, 


REVELATION  55 

attired  in  a  much-creased  linen  gown.  "  Lidy,  she 
would  have  it  you  was  out  burryin';  but  I  says,  she 
can't  be  fur,  I  says,  'cause  the  kitchen  doors  an'  win 
ders  is  wide  open." 

"  I  jest  run  out  to  the  barn  a  minit,"  said  Elizabeth, 
awkwardly,  her  face  on  fire  as  she  regarded  her  disor 
dered  kitchen  from  the  coign  of  vantage  occupied  by 
the  newcomers.  "Do  walk  right  in  the  settin'  room, 
where  it's  cool.  I  guess  you  foun'  it  pretty  warm 
a-ridin'  in  the  sun,  didn't  you,  Mis'  Harney  ?  "  she  added 
interrogatively,  when  her  two  visitors  were  seated. 

"  Yes,  'twas  tumble  warm,"  said  the  person  ad 
dressed,  plying  her  palm-leaf  fan  with  long,  easy 
strokes.  "  I  s'pose  I  sense  the  heat  more  'n  most  folks 
on  'count  of  my  heft.  We've  been  to  the  buryin'- 
ground,  me  an'  Lidy;  it  looks  real  neat  at  this  time  of 
the  year;  don't  it,  Lidy?" 

"It  cert'nly  doos,"  assented  the  other,  with  a  long- 
drawn  plaintive  sigh;  "an'  it's  really  edify  in' to  read 
off  the  tombstones;  it  keeps  us  in  mind  of  our ap- 
proachin'  end.  I  says  to  Mis'  Harney,  it  won't  be  long, 
I  says,  before  you'll  be  a-layin'  me  away  in  this  'ere 
spot.  I've  got  my  grave  all  picked  out.  How've  you 
been  feelin'  this  summer,  Mis'  Winch  ?  Seem's  so 
you  wa'n't  lookin'  as  well's  usual.  An'  how's  that 
poor  unfortinit  child  you  took  to  raise  ?" 

Elizabeth's  thin  face  flushed  hotly.  "I  guess  I'm  's 
well's  usual,"  she  said,  stiffly. 

"An"  the  little  boy?"  persisted  the  lady,  peering 
sharply  out  of  the  shuttered  windows.  "  I  don't  see 
him  'round  anywheres.  But  mebbe  school  ain't  out 
yit." 

"'Manuel  don't  go  to  school,"  said  Elizabeth,  com- 


56  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

i 

pressing  her  lips  tightly,  as  she  plaited  her  apron 
strings  into  a  frill.  "  He — he's  a-learnin'  to  home," 
she  added,  with  a  defiant  lift  of  the  head.  "  He  ain't 
but  six;  there's  plenty  of  time  fur  his  schoolin'." 

"  My  Benny  had  his  primer  read  through  twict  afore 
he  was  six,"  observed  Mrs.  Harney,  complacently. 
"  But,  of  course,  Benny  was  extry  smart;  he  takes 
after  my  folks,  Benny  doos.  Course  it  ain't  to  be  ex 
pected  'at  a  pauper  'ud ' 

"  I  never  see  a  brighter  child  'an  my  'Manuel,"  said 
Elizabeth,  sharply.  "  He — he  kin  read  in  the  news 
papers,  'Manuel  kin;  an'  I  guess  there  ain't  many  chil 
dren  any  smarter  'an  that!  " 

"I  want  to  know!"  ejaculated  both  ladies,  in  long- 
drawn  incredulity.  They  leaned  forward  and  stared 
searchingly  at  their  hostess'  flushed  face. 

After  a  pregnant  pause,  Mrs.  Harney  settled  back 
heavily  in  her  chair.  "  We've  been  thinkin'  fur  quite 
a  spell  of  takin'  a  boy  to  raise,"  she  said,  wiping  the 
moist  creases  of  her  features  with  a  limp  pocket-hand 
kerchief.  "Our  Benny  don't  take  to  the  shop;  I  tell 
his  pa  he  ain't  built  fur  a  blacksmith,  and  there  ain't  no 
use  in  talkin'  'bout  it.  I'd  ruther  he'd  clerk  it  after  a 
spell.  Of  course,  Ben,  he's  allers  wanted  the  boy  in 
the  shop;  but  Benny's  too  much  like  my  folks.  So  I 
says  to  Ben  the  other  day  when  he  was  goin'  on  'bout 
it;  '  Ben,'  I  says,  '  why  don't  you  take  a  likely  boy  an', 
fetch  him  up  to  take  a  holt  in  the  shop  ?  He  c'd  begin,' 
I  says,  '  a-fetchin'  an'  carryin',  a-blowin'  the  belluses 
an'  holdin'  the  horses.'  Ben  says  to  me,  '  Whar's  yer 
boy,'  he  says.  'I  don't  want  no  fool  boy,'  he  says; 
'  but  a  smart,  likely  boy  'at  could  earn  his  salt  I'd  take 
in  a  minit.'  Then  thinks  s'l,  mebbe  Mis'  Winch  'ull 


REVELATION 


57 


be  glad  to  get  red  of  that  boy  she's  got.  As  I  says 
to  Ben,  she's  done  her  full  share  toward  fetchin'  him 
up,  I  says." 

Elizabeth,  sitting  rigidly  erect  in  her  chair,  stared  at 
the  speaker  without  replying. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  her  right  out  what's  goin'  the 
rounds  of  the  village,  Jane  ?  "  demanded  the  other  lady, 
smoothing  her  bonnet  strings  with  an  air  of  impor 
tance.  "  I  believe  in  comin'  right  out  with  the  trewth 
every  time — there's  nothing  so  hullsome  as  trewth. 
I'm  always  fur  tellin'  things  jest  as  they  be  without 
fear  ner  favor,  more  especial  when  I  feel  's'o  it  was 
my  Christian  dooty,  as  1  cert'nly  do  to-day." 

Elizabeth's  eyes  had  shifted  from  the  purple  expanse 
of  Mrs.  Harney's  countenance;  her  gaze  seemed  con 
centrated  upon  the  spinster's  ill-fitting  artificial  teeth, 
which  clicked  an  animated  accompaniment  to  her 
words. 

"Yes,"  clicked  that  lady  with  growing  earnestness, 
"  when  a  child  gets  abused  so  it's  the  talk  of  the  town, 
I  think  it's  time  to  inte'fere!  " 

"Ben,  he  hears  it  mentioned  at  the  shop  ev'ry  once 
in  a  while,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Harney.  "  Most  everybody 
knows  'at  your  husban'  is  a  tumble  ha'sh  man.  1  says 
to  Ben,  I  guess  Mis'  Winch  won't  be  the  one  to  stan' 
in  the  way  of  the  boy,  ef  it's  once  named  to  her,  I 
says,  We'd  give  him  'nough  to  eat,  an'  ten  weeks  of 
schoolin'  a  year,  an'  a  trade." 

Elizabeth  had  risen  to  her  feet;  red  spots  glowed  on 
either  sallow  cheek.  "You  want  I  should  give  you 
my  child!"  she  cried.  "My  child 'at  I've  took  keer 
of  all  these  years!  Ain't  you  'shamed  to  set  in  my 
house  an'  go  on  with  sech  talk  ?  You'd  give  him 


58  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

'nough  to  eat,  would  ye,  Mis'  Harney  ?  Well,  I'm 
tumble  'bleeged  to  you,  but  I  guess  I  kin  make  out 
with  my  cookin'  'long  side  o'  yourn  any  day  in  the 
week.  I  ain't  forgot  the  cake  you  brought  to  the  do 
nation!  My  'Manuel's  learnin'  to  work  on  the  farm, 
an'  of  course  he  hes  to  be  c'rrected  same  as  other  chil- 
dern,  but " 

Her  voice  died  away  into  silence,  as  her  eyes  wan 
dered  uneasily  toward  the  open  door. 

Her  guests  looked  at  one  another  with  meaning 
smiles.  "  I  guess  we'll  hev  to  be  gettin'  along,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Harney,  rising  with  alacrity.  "Your 
man'll  be  comin'  in  fur  his  supper  pretty  soon,  I 
shouldn't  wonder.  When  folks  don't  git  their  dinner 
dishes  outen  the  way  'fore  three  o'clock  in  the  aft;- 
noon,  they're  likely  to  git  flustered  'long  'bout  tea  time." 

With  this  parting  shot  the  two  ladies  turned  their 
backs  on  their  hostess  and  made  their  way  down  the 
narrow  path  to  the  front  gate.  The  spinster's  high- 
pitched  giggle,  in  evident  comment  upon  some  sotto 
voce  remark  of  the  blacksmith's  wife,  reached  Eliza 
beth's  ears  and  brought  the  angry  tears  to  her  eyes. 

"  An'  I  tol'  'Manuel  'at  I  reckoned  we  was  in  heaven 
a'ready!"  she  muttered,  as  she  flew  about  her  kitchen 
with  savage  energy;  "  Lord,  what  a  liar  I  be!  " 

When  the  child  came  into  the  house,  holding  the 
book  lovingly  in  both  hands,  his  eyes  shining  like  even 
ing  stars  after  rain,  Elizabeth  regarded  him  with  a 
fretful  wrinkling  of  her  worn  forehead.  "Put  yer 
Bible  into  the  spare  room  under  the  bolster  of  the  bed," 
she  said  crisply.  "You  won't  hev  much  time  to  be 
studyin'  it  'cept  Sundays.  Then  I  want  you  should  go 
after  the  cows  's  quick  's  ever  you  kin.  You  kin  eat 


REVELATION  59 

this  piece  of  bread  an'  butter  to  stay  yer  stomick  till 
supper's  ready." 

"The  simple  idee!  "  she  muttered  to  herself,  as  she 
stood  on  the  back  steps  watching  the  small  figure 
armed  with  the  big  piece  of  bread,  "  Mis'  Harney  mus' 
think  'at  she's  smart.  Her  cookin'  can't  hoi'  a  candle 
to  mine!  " 

Erastus  Winch  returned  from  his  expedition  with 
Mr.  Dundor  in  unwonted  good  humor.  "I  ain't  got 
much  app'tite,"  he  remarked,  as  he  reached  across  the 
table  for  his  fourth  biscuit;  "we  e't  pretty  hearty 
to  Turnerses'.  Liph,  he's  a  cute  one;  whilst  we  was 
eatin'  pie  an'  doughnuts  inside,  his  mare  was  feedin' 
out  to  the  barn.  I  heerd  him  givin'  Al  Turner  speshul 
d'rections.  'Be  sure  you  rub  her  down  keerful,  Al/ 
he  says;  'caskets  is  heavy  haulin'.  An' you  kin  slip 
an  extry  feed  of  oats  into  the  bag  if  you  don't  mind,' 
he  says,  kind  of  mournful  like.  'They  ain't  nobody 
so  free  with  things  temp'ral  as  the  b'reaved,'  he  says  to 
me,  as  we  was  walkin*  into  the  house;  'seems  's  'o 
they  didn't  sense  it  same's  at  other  times,'  he  says. 
'  It  doos  'em  good  to  spen'  an'  be  spent;  it  ca'ms  their 
sorrer  an'  relieves  their  feelin's.'  Say,  'Liz'beth,  if  I  go 
first  don't  you  furgit  to  keep  yer  eyes  peeled  fur  Liph. 
1  swan  it  'ud  make  me  swearin'  mad  to  look  down 
f'om  above  an'  see  sech  goin's  on  to  my  place!" 

Elizabeth  fetched  a  long  sigh  of  pleasurable  excite 
ment.  "  Be  you  goin'  to  'tend  the  fun'ral,  'Rastus?" 
she  asked  timidly. 

"I  dunno  but  I  be,"  admitted  Winch,  fingering  with 
satisfaction  the  large  round  of  a  silver  dollar  in  his 
trowsers  pocket.  "Liph,  he  mentioned  my  name  as 
one  of  the  bearers.  They're  goin'  to  put  on  style  an' 


6o  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

sen'  kerridges.  I  s'pose  you  kin  go  in  the  buggy  ef 
you're  a  min'  to,"  he  added  grudgingly. 

Elizabeth's  face  lighted  up.  "My!  I'd  like  to  go 
real  well,  'Rastus;  I've  stayed  to  hum  pretty  stiddy 
lately,  an'  fun'rals  is  always  so  interestin'.  To-night 
's  the  reg'lar  prayer-meetin',"  she  went  on,  with  a 
timid  cough;  "  we  ain't  neither  of  us  'tended  a  meetin' 
fur  quite  a  spell." 

"I  s'pose  I  kin  hitch,"  growled  Winch;  "you  ain't 
wanted  to  go  'n  'count  of  him,  an'  you  know  you 
ain't." 

"Land!  'Manuel's  big  'nough  to  go  to  meetin';  it'll 
do  him  good,"  said  Elizabeth  cheerfully.  "We  don'? 
want  folks  talkin'  'bout  us  anyhow."  She  ventured 
the  last  remark  with  an  apprehensive  glance  at  her 
husband's  grim  face. 

"Who's  been  here?"  he  demanded,  pausing  with 
his  hand  upon  the  latch.  "Some  clackin'  hen,  I'll  bet 
a  dollar! " 

"Oh,  'twa'n't  nothin'  of  any  'count,  'Rastus;  on'y 
Mis'  Harney  an'  Lidy  Smith  stopped  fur  a  minit,  an' 
they  said " 

"Let  'em  min'  their  bizness,  an'  do  you  min' 
yourn!"  responded  Winch,  with  a  sudden  lapse  into 
his  usual  marital  manner.  "An",  say!  1  ain't  goin'  to 
no  prayer-meetin'  to-night;  I've  fooled  away  'nough 
time." 

"I  might  'a  knowed  better,"  murmured  Elizabeth 
with  a  resigned  sigh.  She  was  standing  with  folded 
arms  at  the  open  door  of  the  kitchen.  In  the  west, 
behind  dark  masses  of  orchard  foliage,  the  sky  glowed 
with  a  clear  pulsing  amber,  yearning  toward  the 
violet  hues  of  mid-heaven  through  illimitable  depths 


REVELATION  61 

of  vivid  green.  At  the  verge  of  the  violet  hung  the 
new  moon,  a  slender  thread  of  light;  above  it  swung 
the  burning  lamp  of  the  evening  star. 

"There  now!  ef  I  ain't,  gone  an'  seen  the  new  moon 
over  my  lef  shoulder  agin,"  she  muttered.  "All  the 
signs  is  fur  bad  luck!"  Her  eye  fell  upon  a  small 
figure  perched  on  the  topmost  rail  of  the  fence. 
"  'Manuel!  "  she  called  with  sudden  sharpness,  "  come 
right  in  outen  that  dew  this  minit!  Nex'  thing  I  know 
he'll  be  down  sick  with  malary — what  with  the  hot 
sun  beatin'  down  on  him  daytimes  an'  all." 

The  child  clambered  down  from  his  perch  with 
manifest  reluctance.  "I  was  lookin'  at  it,  mummy," 
he  said,  pointing  his  small  finger  at  the  solemn 
pageant  of  heavenly  color.  "  I'd  like  to  go  there!  " 

"Don't  you  be  a-talkin'  nonsense,  'Manuel,"  ex 
claimed  Elizabeth  severely.  "  You're  a-goin'  to  bed 
this  minit,  that's  where  you're  a-goin'." 

"Does  my  Father  live  way  up  on  the  hill?"  asked 
the  child,  his  eyes  turning  wistfully  to  the  window,  as 
Elizabeth  energetically  scrubbed  his  face  with  a  coarse 
brown  towel. 

"I  guess  so,"  answered  the  woman,  absent-mind 
edly,  "now  I  want  you  should  say  yer  'Now  I  lay 
me '  an'  go  right  to  sleep.  Tain't  healthy  fur  children 
to  be  too  smart." 


CHAPTER  VI 
His  Father 

""V  TOW  mind  'at  you  set  still,  'Manuel,  when  we 

_L\|  git  inside,  jest's  if  you  was  in  church!"  The 
two  were  walking  soberly  up  the  broad  path  which 
led  to  the  residence  of  the  afflicted  Turners,  as 
Elizabeth  repeated  for  perhaps  the  twentieth  time  the 
exhortation  quoted  above. 

Old-fashioned  perennials  bordered  the  walk  on 
either  side;  the  child's  beauty-loving  eyes  were  daz 
zled  by  the  heavy  clusters  of  pink  roses,  the  clumps  of 
fleur-de-lis,  and  the  low-growing  masses  of  clove 
pinks  over  which  bees  hung  amorously.  Against 
green  ramparts  of  fragrant  box  geraniums  flashed  their 
scarlet  fires,  and  petunias  spread  the  crumpled  velvet 
of  their  royal  robes. 

"My!  ain't  the  flowers  han'some!"  whispered 
Elizabeth,  pausing  wistfully,  "I  wish't  I  had  a  slip  of 
that  g'ranium! " 

"Lookin'  at  the  blows,  Mis'  Winch  ?"  inquired  a 
nasal  voice  from  behind.  "It  doos  seem  strange  to 
see  'em  a-bloomin'  so  bright  in  this  vale  of  tears,  don't 
it?" 

"Why,  I  declare,  Mis'  Dundor,  I  don't  know  when 
I've  seen  you  before! "  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  turning 
quickly  around.  "  You  ain't  lookin'  very  well." 

"No,  I  ain't  well,"  responded  the  other  with  a  heavy 
sigh  and  a  subdued  sniff.  She  was  a  tall,  stoop- 

62 


HIS  FATHER  63 

shouldered  woman,  with  a  curiously  mottled,  laven 
der-tinted  complexion,  which  contrasted  unpleasantly 
with  her  pale  blue  eyes  and  reddish  hair.  "  I've  been 
awful  poorly  most  all  summer;  I  tell  Dundor  'at  he'll 
be  buryin'  me  come  fall."  The  woman's  eyes  had 
been  busying  themselves  with  the  small  figure  of  Im- 
manuel  as  she  spoke.  "  I  s'pose,"  she  went  on,  with 
increasing  animation,  "that  this  is  the  child 'at  was 
born  in  your  barn.  1  never  seen  him  before." 

"Yes,"  admitted  Elizabeth,  a  mixture  of  pride  and 
reluctance  in  her  manner;  "this  is  'Manuel."  She 
picked  an  imaginary  bit  of  lint  from  his  tunic,  and 
settled  his  hat  more  squarely  over  the  short  dark  curls. 
"Say  how-do-you-do  to  the  lady,  'Manuel!"  she 
added,  in  a  severe  voice. 

The  child  glanced  up  shyly  into  the  watery  blue 
eyes  of  the  stranger.  "How  do  you  do?"  he  re 
peated,  obediently. 

"Where  in  creation  do  you  suppose  his  mother 
come  from?"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Dundor,  blinking 
thoughtfully.  "1  s'pose  you  ain't  never  found  out 
who  his  father  was,  have  you?" 

"No,  I  never  have;  an'  what's  more,  I  don't  never 
want  to,"  said  Elizabeth,  shortly. 

The  child  lifted  his  eyes  in  manifest  astonishment. 
"I  know,"  he  said  softly. 

"  It  does  seem  a  nawful  pity  to  be  lef  alone  in  this 
cold  world,"  sighed  Mrs.  Dundor.  "But  it's  a  terrible 
responsibility  to  raise  a  child;  you  can't  never  tell  how 
they'll  turn  out.  There's  Dundor  standin'  in  the  door; 
I  guess  if  we  want  seats  clost  to  the  mourners  we'd 
better  be  goin'  in.  Land,  child,  what  do  you  want?" 

Immanuel  had  grasped  a  fold  of  the  woman's  gown 


64  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

with  determination.  "I  want  to  tell  you  about  my 
father,"  he  said  eagerly.  "I  do  know  who  he  is. 
Mummy  told  me."  He  pointed  his  finger  at  Elizabeth, 
who  flushed  with  annoyance. 

"You  don't  say!"  cried  Mrs.  Dundor,  nodding  and 
blinking  with  pleased  attention.  "I  thought  mebbe 
you  knew  more'n  you  was  willin'  to  let  on,  Mis' 
Winch!  Some  folks  would  have  thought  twict  afore 
tellin'  what  wa'n't  so  in  the  house  of  mournin'.  Who 
is  your  father,  bub  ?  " 

"Come  right  along  in  the  house,  "Manuel,"  said 
Elizabeth,  struggling  with  her  mortification.  "Don't 
pay  no  'tention  to  what  he  says,  Mis'  Dundor;  'tain't 
likely  I'd  tell  a  lie  'bout  it,— 'specially  right  afore  the 
child." 

"But  you  did  tell  me  'bout  my  father,  mummy," 
persisted  the  boy.  "He  lives  up  on  the  hill,  an'  he 
loves  me  more'n  anybody  else;  you  said  so,  mummy." 

"You  might's  well  own  up,  Mis'  Winch,  seein'  the 
cat's  out  the  bag,"  put  in  the  undertaker's  wife,  her 
pale  lips  widening  with  a  smile  of  malicious  enjoy 
ment.  "They  say  it  takes  childern  an'  fools  t'  tell 
the  truth." 

"Well,  if  you  mus'  know,  Mis'  Dundor,  I  tol'  the 
child  'at  God  in  heaven  is  his  Father,"  said  Elizabeth, 
goaded  into  speech.  "That's  gospil  truth,  an'  you 
can't  deny  it." 

"Fur  the  land's  sake! "  ejaculated  the  other,  with 
uplifted  hands.  "  It  ain't  no  less  'an  blasphemious  to 
talk  that  way,  seein'  it  ain't  no  ways  likely  'at  he's  one 
of  the  'lect." 

Elizabeth  turned  her  back  upon  the  speaker  and 
hastily  mounted  the  steps,  dragging  the  child  after 


HIS  FATHER  65 

her.  "What  a  nawful  naughty  boy  you  be!  "she 
whispered  indignantly;  "you  ain't  got  no  manners 
after  all  I've  done  fur  ye!  " 

The  child's  large  brown  eyes  filled  with  astonished 
tears,  through  which  he  gazed  in  silence  about  the  dim 
room  into  which  Elizabeth  was  pushing  him.  Pres 
ently  he  was  set  emphatically  upon  a  wooden-bot 
tomed  chair,  Elizabeth  taking  her  place  beside  him  with 
compressed  lips.  There  were  a  great  many  people  in 
the  room,  the  child  perceived, — women  mostly,  dressed 
sombrely.  Between  the  closed  and  darkened  windows 
stood  a  long,  black  object  heaped  with  white  flowers, 
tortured  into  stiff  shapes  of  stars  and  anchors  and 
crowns.  Among  the  sad-faced  women  tiptoed  the 
thin,  active  figure  of  the  undertaker,  with  all  the  in 
consequent  bustle  of  the  blue-bottle  fly  which  boomed 
at  intervals  on  the  window-pane.  A  broken  slat  of 
the  tightly  closed  blinds  gave  dazzling  glimpses  of 
green  sunlit  grass,  and  the  scarlet  and  yellow  of  nod 
ding  blossoms.  In  the  fields  beyond,  meadow  larks 
called  and  answered  one  another  with  wild  sweetness. 
There  were  other  sounds  nearer  by,  the  stamping  of 
restless  horses,  the  creaking  of  wheels,  the  shutting  of 
distant  doors;  men's  voices  subdued  to  an  inarticulate 
murmur,  the  going  and  coming  of  hushed  feet  in  the 
room  overhead.  High  above  all  struck  in  the  nasal 
voices  of  the  village  choir,  tuned  to  piercing  insistence 
in  the  long-drawn,  dolorous  notes  of  China: 

Why-e-e  should  we  mourn  depa-a-a-arting  friends  ? 
Or  sha-a-ke  at  death's  a-alarms  ? 

Immanuel,  depressed  by  Elizabeth's  unwonted  reproof 
and  the  general  gloom,  hid  his  face  in  Elizabeth's 


66  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

shawl;  an  aching  lump  struggled  in  his  throat,  forcing 
at  last  a  loud  wail  from  his  lips. 

"Why,  'Manuel,"  whispered  Elizabeth  with  an  em 
phatic  little  shake,  "do  you  keep  quiet  this  minute; 
don't  you  see  the  minister's  a-goin'  to  speak?" 

"  Man  that  is  born  of  woman  is  of  few  days  and 
full  of  trouble.  He  cometh  forth  like  a  flower,  and  is 
cut  down:  he  fleeth  also  as  a  shadow,  and  continueth 
not!" 

Again  the  child's  voice  filled  the  solemn  pause  with 
a  choking  sob  of  inarticulate  misery. 

Elizabeth  glanced  about  her  in  perplexed  distress  to 
meet  a  fire  of  shocked  and  displeased  glances.  Mr. 
Eliphalet  Dundor  was  already  tiptoeing  his  way 
across  the  room  with  an  air  of  professional  omnis 
cience. 

"  I'd  let  him  go  outside,  if  I  was  you,"  suggested  a 
kindly  whisper  from  behind. 

Elizabeth  turned,  her  face  on  fire.  "Oh  Mis'  Haskil," 
she  breathed  excitedly,  "I  don't  know  what  in  the 
world  ails  'Manuel;  I  wouldn't  ha'  brought  him  only 
he  always's  been  so  awful  good  in  church !" 

"My  Rosy's  somewheres  in  the  yard,"  returned  the 
other,  beaming  encouragement  from  her  broad,  ruddy 
face;  "fun'rals  ain't  no  place  for  childern.  Run  'long 
outdoors,  sonny." 

"Yes,  do  go,  'Manuel;  an'  don't  you  come  back, 
neither.  Go  quick,  before  Liph  Dundor  gets  here!" 
urged  Elizabeth. 

With  a  long  sigh  of  relief  the  child  slipped  from  his 
chair,  and  darted  swift  and  noiseless  as  a  frightened 
bird  into  the  sunshine.  Still  breathing  hard,  his  shoul 
ders  shaken  with  recurring  sobs,  he  made  his  way  to 


HIS  FATHER  67 

the  far  side  of  the  deep,  old-fashioned  yard  where 
ancient  apple-trees,  unpruned  for  many  a  year, 
stretched  their  branches  earthward.  The  grass  grew 
lush  and  tall  here,  quite  shoulder  high  indeed,  and 
tasseled  out  into  fragrant  plumes.  Immanuel  dropped 
on  all  fours  into  the  midst  of  this  verdant  cover,  and 
crept  animal-wise  to  a  snug  hiding-place  roofed  and 
walled  with  green. 

The  long  flute  calls  of  the  meadow  larks:  "Oh — 
sweet!  Oh — sweet!  Oh,  my  own  sweet!"  flooded 
the  silence  with  tranquillity.  The  boy  lay  flat  upon  his 
back  and  stared  into  the  leafy  arches  above  his  head; 
dazzling  reflections  of  sky  and  cloud  shimmered  on 
the  budding  spheres  which  loaded  the  gnarled  boughs. 
He  wondered  vaguely  why  he  had  wept.  The  com 
fort  of  this  one  among  his  Father's  many  mansions 
had  already  penetrated  his  soul. 

A  human  voice  broke  harshly  into  the  harmonious 
chord  of  peace:  "I  sez  to  m'  wife,  you  women-folk 
gits  smarter  and  knowin'er  every  day,  I  sez;  but  Mis' 
Winch  takes  the  cake  so  fur!"  The  muffled  tones 
ended  in  a  low  chuckle. 

From  his  hiding-place  Immanuel  discerned  other 
tokens  of  human  proximity  in  two  black  shadows 
which  blotted  out  the  sunshine  among  the  nodding 
grass  plumes  at  his  feet. 

The  voice  went  on  in  a  tone  of  lazy  enjoyment: 
"  We  men-folks  'ull  git  whipped  clean  out  at  the  polls 
some  day  or  other,  an'  I'll  bet  ye  on  it!  Ef  the  critters 
don't  'low  us  the  priv'lege  of  c'rectin'  our  own  young 
uns,  onct  they  git  a  holt  of  the  franchise  they'll  keep 
us  f'om  votin'  altogether,  an'  I'll  bet  ye  on  it! " 

"  What  yer  gassin'  about,  Lute  ?"  demanded  a  gruff 


68  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

voice,  at  sound  of  which  the  child  involuntarily  shrank 
closer  to  the  trunk  of  the  friendly  apple-tree. 

"  Liph  Dundor  tol'  me  'bout  it  yiste'd'y ;  he  thought 
'twas  too  all  fired  good  to  keep,  an'  I'm  blamed  if  I 
don't.  Liph,  he  tol'  me  to  keep  it  to  myself,  but  I 
reckon  you'd  ought  to  know  it.  Say,  I'll  bet  my  wife 
'ud  think  twict  afore  she'd  call  in  anybody  offen  the 
street  to  interfere  when  I'm  busy  a-lickin'  the  boys! 
Why,  ye  can't  gin  'em  too  much  of  it;  ez  I  tol'  Liph. 
' Spare  the  rod,'  I  sez,  '  an'  spile  the '  " 

"Who's  been  interferin'  with  who?  What  in 
thunder  you  talkin'  'bout  anyhow?"  demanded 
Winch,  raising  his  voice. 

"Don"  you  git  'xcited  now,  Ras,  or  they'll  hear  ye 
inside.  You  was  givin'  that  'dopted  boy  o'  yourn  a 
little  taste  of  the  gad  day  b'fore  yiste'd'y,  wa'n't 
you?" 

"  Yas,  I  was,  an'  what  of  it  ?  " 

"Wall,  you'll  remember 'at  you  was  int'rupted  by 
Liph  kind  of  unexpected  like,  an' " 

"  She  didn't  dare  ask  Liph  Dundor  to  — 

"That's  jest  what  she  done,  by  jingo!  I  thought 
'twas  mighty  brash  of  Mis'  Winch,  same's  1  tol'  my 
wife.  But  say,  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  make  no  fuss  'bout 
it,  I  hope!  Thinks  sez  I,  it's  sech  an  all-fired  good 
joke  on  Ras,  'at  mebbe  he'll  enjoy  it  as  much's  the  rest 
on  us !  " 

"  It's  mighty  enjoyable,  thank  ye,  Lute,"  said  Winch 
dryly.  "  Mis'  Winch  hes  enjoyed  it  a'ready,  I  persoom. 
I'll  see  to  it  'at  the  boy  don't  lose  nothin'  by  it! " 

"I'll  bet  ye! "  agreed  the  other,  with  a  hoarse  laugh 
cut  suddenly  short  by  a  spasm  of  propriety. 

At  sound  of  the  long-drawn  windy  cadence  of  a 


HIS  FATHER  69 

hymn,  the  two  shadows  moved  slowly  away.  The 
child  sat  up  and  gazed  about  him  with  the  furtive  air 
of  a  wild  creature  confronted  with  some  nameless 
peril.  A  friendly  gap  in  the  hedge  behind  the  apple 
tree  offered  safe  passage  into  the  sunlit,  blossoming 
meadow,  where  yellow  breasted  lovers  still  called  en- 
treatingly,  "Sweet — sweet!  Oh — my  own  sweet!" 

"My  father  loves  me!"  whispered  a  small  choked 
voice.  "He  lives  up  on  the  hill  an'  he  loves  me.  I 
am  going  to  find  him! " 


CHAPTER  VII 
Hilda 

LIKE  other  seekers  after  the  divine  in  all  ages  the 
boy  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  the  hills,  whose  swell 
ing  sides  clothed  with  multi-colored  squares  of  corn 
and  pasture  were  crowned  and  belted  with  dark  woods. 
His  roving  fancy  reverted  for  an  instant  to  the  patch 
work  quilt  with  which  the  provident  Elizabeth  had 
tucked  him  snugly  from  the  night  since  he  could  re 
member;  the  thought  forced  large  tears  through  which 
the  landscape  wavered  as  in  a  dream.  Nevertheless  he 
pushed  on  determinedly,  following  the  line  of  fences, 
laid  negligently  of  rough-hewn  rails  half  hid  in  the 
lavish  growth  of  weeds  and  low-growing  trees. 

A  narrow  road  winding  up  by  slow  degrees  from 
the  lap  of  the  valley  next  tempted  the  wandering  feet. 
Here  the  child,  mindful  of  Elizabeth's  oft  repeated  ad 
monitions,  paused  to  divest  himself  of  his  shoes  and 
stockings.  For  awhile  he  carried  these  useful  articles 
in  the  skirt  of  his  tunic,  his  brown  toes  sinking  lux 
uriously  in  the  dust  cooled  by  a  recent  shower.  Then 
led  by  fast-springing  hopes,  he  carefully  deposited 
them  behind  a  clump  of  mullein  which  spread  its 
stately  velvet  leaves  by  the  roadside.  "  My  father 
will  let  me  go  barefoot  even  on  Sunday! "  he  thought, 
and  ran  forward  with  a  new  sense  of  joy  and  freedom. 
A  little  later  the  "Sunday  hat,"  bound  beneath  his 

70 


HILDA  71 

smarting  chin  with  a  strenuous  rubber  cord,  found  its 
way  to  a  green  bank  where  he  fancied  that  it  might 
serve  as  a  nest  for  certain  friendly  and  inquisitive 
crows,  who  craned  their  necks  from  the  fence  rails  to 
stare  and  chatter  after  the  small  figure. 

Wild  raspberries  grew  by  the  roadside,  the  steep 
bank  twinkled  with  their  scarlet  fires;  beyond  the 
fence  also,  where  an  upland  meadow  clad  in  sparse 
grasses  lay  sweet  and  silent  beneath  the  warm  after 
noon  sun.  This  meadow  dipped  toward  a  brook  on 
its  further  side,  and  beyond,  the  white  walls  of  a  farm 
house  shone  through  dark  trees.  Far  beneath  lay  what 
appeared  to  the  child's  wondering  eyes  as  the  whole 
great  world — a  pageant  of  field  and  wood  in  the  bright 
valley,  with  houses  no  bigger  than  his  thumb  and  the 
loose-flung  coils  of  the  river  gleaming  blue  and  silver. 
On  a  narrow  thread  of  road,  dust-white,  a  line  of  black 
dots  moved  slowly. 

The  wanderer  sat  down  on  the  mossy  top  of  a  giant 
rock  which  shouldered  its  way  out  of  the  hillside,  and 
looked  long  at  the  amazing  picture.  For  the  moment 
he  was  quite  as  happy  as  the  little  black  crickets  which 
sang  at  his  feet.  Like  them  he  was  filled  with  the  joy 
ous  life  which  throbs  at  the  heart  of  all  nature.  Just 
to  be  is  to  be  divine  ;  and  to  know  this  is  the  end  of  all  life  ! 

Wrapt  in  the  sweet  silence  the  boy  did  not  hear 
small  stealthy  footsteps  which  crept  quite  up  to  the 
big  rock,  but  he  felt  the  touch  of  warm  fingers  which 
essayed  to  pull  from  his  grasp  the  cluster  of  berries, 
which  he  had  refrained  from  eating  because  they  were 
too  beautiful. 

"I  want  'em;  they's  bigger  'an  mine!  "  said  a  voice, 
sweet  as  a  thrush's. 


72  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Immanuel  involuntarily  tightened  his  grasp  upon  his 
treasure  as  he  turned  grave,  startled  eyes  upon  the  in 
truder. 

Blue  eyes,  shaded  by  a  fluff  of  yellow  curls,  met  his 
look  of  inquiry  bravely.  "  I  want  'em  dis  minute!" 
repeated  the  sweet  voice  imperiously. 

"Whose  child  are  you?"  demanded  the  boy,  un 
consciously  assuming  the  half  stern,  half  patronizing 
air  with  which  this  inquiry  had  invariably  been  put  to 
himself. 

"  I'm  my  mama's  little  girl,"  answered  the  child,  and 
immediately  burst  into  loud  crying. 

"Why  do  you  cry?  Here,  you  shall  have  my  ber 
ries,"  said  the  boy,  eagerly  pressing  the  bunch  of  fruit 
into  the  small  rosy  hands  which  hid  the  blue  eyes. 

The  tears  ceased  as  suddenly  as  an  April  shower. 
"  Why  did  you  cry  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"Because,"  answered  the  child,  puckering  up  her 
face  as  if  undecided  between  tears  and  berries,  "my 
mama's  gone  to  heaven — gran'ma  says  so." 

"  What's  your  name  ?  " 

"Hilda — that's  my  name,  Hilda." 

"You're  small,  Hilda,  much  smaller  'an  1,  an'  I'll  tell 
you  somethin';  heaven's  where  God  is.  God  is  my 
father.  I'm  goin'  to  find  him.  When  I  do,  I  think  1 
shall  stay  with  him  all  the  while  an'  never,  never  come 
down." 

The  child  stared  at  him  with  round  eyes.  She  made 
no  answer,  her  mouth  being  pleasantly  filled  with  ber 
ries;  but  she  nodded  her  yellow  head  understandingly. 

"I'm  goin'  now,"  said  the  boy  with  decision. 
"You  c'n  come  if  you  want  to." 

"Pick  me  some  more  berries,  boy;  I  like  berries." 


HILDA 


73 


"Will  you  come  then?  1  guess  your  mother'll  be 
at  God's  house." 

Hilda  shook  her  head.  "  My  mama's  gone  to  heaven 
in  a  black  box,"  she  said  positively;  "1  saw  her  go- 
just  a  little  while  ago.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  heaven 
in  a  box." 

"This  is  heaven,"  said  the  boy  eagerly.  "God 
made  these  berries  an'  that  pretty  stone,  an' — an'  ev'ry- 
thin'l" 

"Tis  not  heaven;  it's  my  gran'pa's  meadow!  " 

"Yes,  'tis,  'cause " 

"Tisn't!" 

"You're  a  naughty  girl  to  conterdict,"  said  Imman- 
uel  with  dignity.  "This  is  heaven  'cause  God's  here. 
He's  ev'rywhere,  an'  ev'rywhere  'at  he  is  is  heaven." 

Hilda  looked  at  him  with  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  her 
blue  eyes.  "  Where  you  goin'  then  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"I'm  goin' — well,  way  up  to  the  top  of  this  hill,  I 
guess." 

"  Then  I'm  goin'  home;  Aunt  Em's  fryin'  doughnuts 
an'  I  want  one.  The  sugar  bush  is  up  there,  but  there 
isn't  any  sugar  now,  so  I  shan't  go." 

"Oh!  What  a  bad,  naughty  girl  to  run  away! 
Come  here  this  minute!"  The  words  delivered  in  a 
high-pitched  monotonous  voice  caused  both  children 
to  turn  suddenly.  A  stout  sunbonneted  figure  was 
coming  slowly  toward  them  across  the  field. 

"I — I  must  go  now,"  stammered  Immanuel,  a  sud 
den  doubt  as  to  the  righteousness  of  his  proceedings 
clouding  his  bright  eyes. 

"It's  only  Aunt  Em,"  said  Hilda  coolly,  reaching 
after  another  berry.  "I  never  mind  her  an'  you 
needn't.  Let's  run;  she  couldn't  catch  us." 


74  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

The  sunbonneted  figure  was  drawing  nearer.  "  Good- 
by,"  said  Immanuel,  oppressed  by  a  proportionate 
sense  of  guilt. 

"You  must  stay;  I  want  you!"  Two  imperious 
hands  fastened  upon  his  sleeve.  "  You  shall  stay,  1  tell 
you!  Mustn't  he  stay,  Aunt  Em;  mustn't  he,  when  1 
want  him  ?" 

"What  a  naughty — naughty  girl!"  exclaimed  the 
woman,  who  now  loomed  tall  above  them.  "I'm 
'fraid  gran'ma'll  warm  you  up  good  fur  runnin'  away! 
What  little  boy  is  this?" 

Immanuel  hung  his  head  and  dug  his  bare  toes 
into  the  earth.  "I  found  him,"  announced  Hilda 
complacently.  "I'm  goin'  to  keep  him  to  play 
with." 

"What  an  idee!"  cried  the  woman,  her  fat  face 
creasing  itself  in  a  smile.  Seen  nearer  at  hand  she  was 
not  at  all  formidable.  Indeed  she  now  sat  down  with 
a  long,  easy  sigh  and  drew  the  little  girl  into  her  capa 
cious  lap.  "You're  a  nawful  naughty  girl  to  plague 
Aunt  Em  so,  Hildy,"  she  said  mildly.  "Didn't  your 
gran'ma  tell  you  you  shouldn't  go  out  the  yard  ?  My, 
my!  jus'  see  how  wet  your  little  feet  are!  You  must 
ha'  waded  right  through  the  brook!  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  Hilda  conclusively,  "  I  wanted  to. 
I  want  him  too,  an'  I  shall  have  him." 

"Where  did  you  come  from,  little  boy?"  asked  the 
woman. 

"From  down  there,"  answered  Immanuel,  pointing 
toward  the  valley. 

"  For  the  land's  sake!    Where  was  you  goin'  ?" 

"  He  was  goin' to  God's  house;  God  lives  way  up 
on  the  hill,  an'  he  wanted  me  to  go  too,  but  I  sha'n't," 


HILDA  75 

said  Hilda  pouting.  "  I'm  goin'  to  make  him  stay 
with  me." 

"Why,  there  ain't  any  church  up  there,"  said  the 
woman,  with  a  vague  smile.  "  Well,  I  guess  we'll  be 
goin'  up  to  the  house,  perhaps  mother'll  know."  She 
rose  slowly  and  held  out  a  hand  to  each  of  the  chil 
dren.  Immanuel  held  back. 

"Come,  boy!  you've  just  gotta  come!  "  cried  Hilda. 

"I  guess  you'd  better  come  'long,"  assented  the 
woman,  "mother,  she'll  know." 

Immanuel  reluctantly  laid  his  brown,  berry-stained 
hand  in  the  broad,  warm  palm  which  was  extended  to 
him,  and  all  three  turned  their  faces  toward  the  farm 
house.  "There's  lots  of  rosb'rries  ripe,"  the  woman 
was  saying,  in  a  tone  of  mild  satisfaction.  "I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  you  an'  me'd  better  come  out  an'  bring  our 
pails  after  supper,  Hildy.  Some  rosb'rry  pie'ud  be 
nice  for  dinner  to-morrow.  Do  you  like  pie  ?" 

"Tell  her  yes'm!"  whispered  Hilda,  hanging  back 
to  address  Immanuel  across  the  expanse  of  lavender- 
colored  calico  which  billowed  between  them.  "An' 
say,  boy!  when  gran'ma  talks  to  you,  you  mus'  speak 
right  up.  Gran'ma  don't  like  folks  'at  don't  speak 
right  up." 

"I  guess  mother'll  know,"  chimed  in  the  woman 
pleasantly.  "She  'most  always  does." 

"Well,  Em'line,"  observed  a  crisp  voice  from  the 
open  window,  "  I  see  you've  found  that  naughty  child. 
Where  was  she  ?" 

"In  the  strawb'rry  meadow,  ma;  but  I  guess  she 
didn't  mean  to  run  away,  did  you,  Hildy?" 

"She  can  come  right  in  here,  an'  set  in  her  chair 
half  an  hour,"  said  the  voice  sternly. 


76  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

The  corners  of  Hilda's  rosy  mouth  drooped  dole 
fully.  "I  don't  want  to!"  she  muttered.  Then  her 
eyes  brightened.  "I  found  a  nice  boy,  gran'ma!" 
she  cried  in  a  tone  of  triumph,  "an'  we've  got 
him." 

"Found  what!"  A  rosy,  spectacled  face  appeared 
at  the  window  and  was  hastily  withdrawn  to  reappear 
an  instant  later  in  the  open  door.  "Where  did  that 
child  come  from,  Em'line  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  ma,"  said  she  of  the  sunbonnet, 
smiling  broadly.  "I  couldn't  get  nothin'  out  of  him. 
He  said  he  was  goin'  to  church  up  on  the  hill;  didn't 
he,  Hildy?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  keep  him  to  play  with!"  asseverated 
Hilda,  dancing  up  and  down  and  clapping  her  hands. 
"  He's  mine,  'cause  I  found  him.  Isn't  he  a  nice  boy, 
gran'ma  ?" 

"  You  can  come  in  an'  set  in  your  chair." 

"  Please,  gran'ma! " 

"Come  right  in!"  The  small,  rotund  figure  ad 
vanced  with  an  air  of  authority,  before  which  the 
smaller  individual  wilted.  With  her  blue  eyes  brim 
ming  over  with  tears,  the  child  threw  both  arms  around 
Immanuel's  neck.  "I've  got  to  go,  boy,"  she  whis 
pered.  "Be  sure  you  speak  right  up  an' say  yes'm 
an'  no'm!" 

"You  go  in,  Em'line,  an'  take  off  her  wet  shoes. 
I'll  talk  to  this  boy."  The  spectacles  were  carefully 
lowered  now,  and  two  brown,  bird-like  eyes  were 
fixed  full  upon  the  fugitive.  "  Can  you  tell  me  whose 
little  boy  you  are,  bubby  ?  " 

"Yes'm;  I'm  God's  little  boy." 

"I  guess  you'd  better  come  in  the  kitchen  and  get  a 


HILDA  7? 

doughnut,"  said  the  old  lady,  pursing  up  her  lips. 
"  Do  you  like  doughnuts  ?  " 

"  Yes'm." 

"Now  mebbe  you'll  remember  what  your  name  is," 
said  his  hostess  briskly,  when  Immanuel  had  swal 
lowed  the  last  crumb  of  the  crisp,  brown  cake. 

"Yes'm;  I  didn't  forget  it." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  'Manuel  Winch." 

"'Manuel  Winch!  Why  there's  Winches  that  lives 
the  other  side  of  the  Corners,  ain't  there,  Emmeline? 
They  go  to  the  Cong'egational  church.  But  how'd  he 
ever  get  up  in  our  strawb'rry  meadow  from  way  the 
other  side  the  Corners  ?  " 

"  P'r'aps  his  folks  was  up  this  way,  ma,"  suggested 
Emmeline,  beaming  placidly  at  the  little  boy  across  the 
heaped  up  pan  of  crullers.  "Don't  you  want  'nother 
doughnut,  sonny?" 

"I  want  one!"  piped  a  little  voice  from  the  door. 
"I'm  hungre-e! " 

"Not  till  you're  through  a-settin'  in  your  chair,  miss; 
naughty  girls  can't  have  no  doughnuts.  Go  right  back 
or  gran'ma'll  have  to  spat  your  han's." 

"Then  I'll  cry!" 

"Yes,  indeedy!  I  just  guess  you  will!"  agreed  her 
grandmother,  taking  two  decided  steps  toward  the 
small  culprit  who  fled  shrieking  toward  her  chair. 
The  old  lady  turned  to  the  boy  with  a  spice  of  severity 
in  her  manner.  "Now,  child,  I  want  you  should  tell 
me  just  where  you  come  from,  an'  how  you  got  here." 

"I— walked,"  said  Immanuel,  winking  rapidly  to 
keep  back  two  big  tears.  "  I  wanted  to  find  my 
father." 


;8  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"Land,  did  you  ever!"  exclaimed  Emmeline,  open 
ing  her  pale  blue  eyes  to  their  widest.  "  What  makes 
him  talk  so  queer,  do  you  s'pose,  ma?" 

"I  guess  he's  runaway;  that's  what /guess,"  said 
the  old  lady,  nodding  shrewdly.  "Did  you  run  away 
from  your  ma,  little  boy  ?  " 

Immanuel  shook  his  head.  "I'm  goin' to  find  my 
father,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"  After  supper  pa  or  one  of  the  boys  could  hitch  up, 
couldn't  they  ?  "  suggested  Emmeline,  looking  vaguely 
out  of  the  window. 

"I  guess  that's  the  only  thing  to  do,"  said  her 
mother,  stepping  briskly  toward  the  inner  room. 
"Now,  Hildy!"  she  began,  then  threw  up  her  hands 
with  an  exclamation  of  horrified  amaze.  "  Em'line, 
Em'line!  do  come  here  quick  an'  see  what  that  child 
's  done  now!  I  declare,  I  don't  know  what  in  creation 
she'll  think  of  next!  She's  got  her  gran'pa's  hair-oil 
an'  poured  it  over  the  top  of  her  head.  It's  drippin* 
all  over  the  carpet!  Fetch  me  a  pail  of  hot  water  as 
quick's  ever  you  can! " 

Finding  himself  thus  unexpectedly  released  from  the 
fire  of  observation  and  interrogation,  Immanuel  sidled 
quietly  out  of  the  open  door.  Then  gathering  head 
way  with  renewed  determination,  he  ran  swiftly 
across  the  door-yard,  frightening  into  sudden  cachina- 
tion  a  flock  of  hens  which  were  dozing  pleasantly 
under  the  lilac  bushes,  slipped  through  the  palings  of 
the  whitewashed  fence,  and  pattered  noiselessly  down 
the  dusty  road,  across  which  the  shadows  were  al 
ready  stretching  long  and  purple. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Ol'  Mose 

THE  infrequent  traveler  on  what  was  commonly 
known  as  "the  back  hill-road  from  Turner's 
Crossroads"  invariably  paused  to  water  his  team  at 
the  trough  in  front  of  "Ol'  Mose"  Armitage's  red 
barn.  Here  a  generous  spring,  decoyed  from  its 
source  in  the  hillside,  gushed  into  the  great  log  hol 
lowed  out  to  receive  it,  then  hurried  joyously  away  in 
guise  of  an  eager  little  brook  to  join  its  parent  stream 
under  the  shadow  of  the  bridge. 

Opposite  the  barn,  across  the  narrow  track  of  the 
road  bordered  on  either  side  by  dense  masses  of  snowy 
mayweed,  stood  a  farmhouse,  its  pine  walls  innocent 
of  paint  toned  to  a  dull  purplish  gray  by  uncounted 
storms.  Closely-drawn  curtains  defended  the  front 
windows  of  the  house  from  curious  eyes,  while  a 
tangle  of  unpruned  lilac  bushes,  overrun  by  a  vagrant 
vine  of  the  wild  clematis,  opposed  a  rampart  of  green 
ery  to  the  petulant  assaults  of  the  west  wind.  Below 
the  house  the  land  dropped  suddenly  away  toward  the 
deep  valley,  which  stretched  east  and  west  in  smiling 
richness  folded  in  from  the  world  by  the  vaporous 
blue  of  distant  hills. 

"A  sightly  spot,  but  tumble  lonesome,"  was  a  fre 
quent  comment  of  guests  at  the  hospitable  watering 
trough.  If  Ol'  Mose  Armitage  shared  that  opinion  he 

79 


8o  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

at  least  made  no  effort  to  enliven  his  solitude.  He  was 
seldom  to  be  seen  about  his  house  or  barn  on  those 
rare  occasions  when  he  might  have  exchanged  a  word 
with  his  fellows.  Still  more  rarely  did  he  visit  the 
village.  It  was  known  that  he  owned  his  land  free 
from  encumbrances,  and  that  he  paid  his  taxes  regu 
larly.  Twice  each  year  he  presented  his  bronzed  face 
framed  in  a  tangle  of  snowy  hair  and  beard  before  the 
window  of  the  village  post-office.  But  once  only  in  the 
memory  of  the  present  postmaster  had  he  received  a 
letter. 

His  manner  on  this  occasion  had  not  differed  a  whit 
from  its  usual  slow  gentleness.  He  pocketed  the  letter 
without  apparent  surprise  or  interest,  climbed  into  his 
shabby  wagon  and  drove  away.  It  was  then  that  Mr. 
Al  Parsons,  the  postmaster  and  proprietor  of  the 
general  store,  in  one  corner  of  which  was  conducted 
the  leisurely  business  of  the  government,  perceived 
the  single  token  of  agitation  displayed  by  Ol'  Mose. 
"  He's  furgot  his  coffee,  by  gum!  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Who  is  the  ol'  hayseed?"  languidly  inquired  the 
oily  young  man,  engaged  in  representing  "  an  elegant 
line  of  teas,  coffees  and  baking-powder." 

"That's  Ol'  Mose  Armitage — queerest  ol'  customer 
y'  ever  see,"  replied  the  genial  Mr.  Parsons,  craning 
his  neck  after  the  departing  wagon.  "  He  lives  up  on 
the  hill  'bout  six  miles  f'om  here  all  by  his  lonesome. 
He  mos'  gen'ally  buys  a  poun'  of  coffee  when  he 
comes  to  the  office;  but  I  reckon  he  was  so  dodgasted 
by  gittin'  a  letter  'at  he  clean  furgot  it.  I'd  kinder  like 
to  know  what  was  in  that  letter,"  he  added,  thought 
fully  ruminating  a  fresh-cut  plug  of  tobacco. 

"  Oh,  he'll  be  back  after  his  coffee  fast  'nough  when 


OL'  MOSE  81 

he  finds  out  himself,"  suggested  the  oily  young  man 
with  an  insinuating  smile;  "an'  if  you  c'n  show  him 
some  of  these  'ere  elegant  goods,  he'll  prob'ly  tell  you 
all  'bout  it." 

Mr.  Armitage  displayed  no  undue  haste  to  acquaint 
himself  with  the  contents  of  the  legal-looking  envelope, 
which  he  had  bestowed  in  his  most  inaccessible 
pocket.  He  drove  briskly  until  he  had  reached  the 
confines  of  the  village;  then  as  the  road  merged  into 
the  difficult  incline  of  the  hill  he  allowed  the  reins  to 
drop  loosely  on  the  back  of  the  mare,  leaned  forward 
and  rested  his  elbows  on  the  patched  knees  of  his 
butternut-brown  trowsers.  Seen  in  the  mellow  light 
of  the  late  afternoon  sunshine,  the  face  beneath  the 
picturesque  brim  of  the  slouched  hat  glowed  ruddy- 
brown  like  frost-bitten  oak  leaves  amid  light  wreaths 
of  early  snow.  From  under  the  shaggy  brows  blue 
eyes  looked  out — eyes  clear  and  brilliant  as  those  of  a 
child,  kind  and  sagacious  as  those  of  a  noble  dog,  keen 
and  penetrating  and  unfathomable  as  those  of  a  man — 
or  an  angel. 

These  strange  eyes  were  cast  down  for  a  time  after 
their  owner  had  left  the  last  house  behind  him.  Ap 
parently  they  busied  themselves  with  the  play  of  the 
mare's  agile  hoofs,  as  she  scrambled  up  the  steep 
incline  of  the  stony  road.  Then  the  broad  shoulders 
lifted,  and  the  ruddy  face  expanded  into  a  smile  of 
pleased  attention.  Bobolinks  were  rising  and  falling 
in  ecstatic  song  curves  in  a  neighboring  pasture;  a 
sparrow  hid  in  the  thicket  proclaimed  his  devotion  to 
his  brooding  mate;  butterflies  white  and  yellow 
fluttered  in  mazy  swirls  almost  under  the  mare's  feet. 
The  smile  deepened  into  a  mellow  laugh,  as  a  pair  of 


82  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

red  squirrels  scampered  at  full  speed  along  the  topmost 
rail  of  the  fence,  up  the  trunk  of  a  big  butternut-tree, 
and  out  onto  a  limb  that  overhung  the  road,  chattering 
angrily  the  while. 

"Ah,  you  remember  me,  greedy  rogues!"  cried 
Mr.  Armitage,  staring  up  into  the  green  depths  above 
his  head,  "and  you'll  be  warning  me  off  your  premises 
two  months  before  nut  harvest,  will  you  ?  You  may  as 
well  stop  and  let  me  out,  Nelly,"  went  on  this  singular 
person,  now  addressing  himself  to  his  mare.  "Wait 
for  me  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  that's  a  good  girl!  " 

He  wound  the  reins  about  the  whip-stock  as  he 
spoke  and  jumped  nimbly  to  the  ground.  The  mare 
paused  to  look  around  at  him  with  large,  intelligent 
eyes,  then  at  his  gesture  of  dismissal  soberly  continued 
her  scramble  up  the  hill.  Left  to  himself  in  the  stony 
road,  Ol'  Mose  plunged  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and 
drew  out  the  letter.  He  stared  at  it  long  and  earnestly, 
then  bestowed  it  still  unopened  in  another  and  more 
remote  pocket,  shaking  his  head  with  a  pucker  of  his 
frosty  brows. 

"I  don't  like  the  feel  of  it,"  he  remarked  aloud. 
"Strange  how  dumb  paper  becomes  saturated  with 
thought  like  a  sponge.  But  if  there  is  only  one  sub 
stance " 

He  stopped  short  to  examine  a  tuft  of  wild  columbine, 
which  displayed  its  coral  trumpets  at  the  foot  of  a 
lichened  rock.  The  fairy  frost-work  of  certain  silver 
mosses,  set  here  and  there  with  tiny  cups  of  vivid 
scarlet,  next  drew  the  keen  blue  eyes.  Young  winter- 
greens,  their  narrow  leaves  delicately  tinged  with  pink, 
clustered  in  the  shade  of  a  low-growing  hemlock.  A 
cream  white  spider  had  set  up  her  housekeeping  here; 


OL'  MOSE  83 

her  frolicksome  young  ones  invisible  to  the  naked  eye 
could  be  clearly  seen  through  the  magnifying  glass 
which  Ol'  Mose  produced  from  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"One  substance,"  he  repeated  meditatively;  "there 
is  no  doubt  of  it;  and  that  substance  is—  As  be 
fore  he  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but  struck  into  a 
brisk  walk  with  the  resolute  air  of  a  man  who  reluc 
tantly  shuts  his  eyes  to  wonders  yet  unseen  that  he 
may  accomplish  a  superior  purpose. 

The  mare  waited  patiently  at  the  crest  of  the  hill,  be 
guiling  her  solitude  by  munching  the  tender  tips  of  the 
seedling  maples  which  crowded  the  rocky  banks  on 
either  side  of  the  road.  Having  gained  her  side,  her 
master  turned  his  grave  face  toward  the  west,  where 
in  solemn  splendors  of  purple  and  gold  a  scarlet  sun 
lay  at  the  verge  of  the  world.  He  stood  there  silent, 
his  head  bared,  the  while  stupendous  wings  of  amber 
lifted  and  spread  from  out  the  flaming  heart  of  the  sun 
— spread  and  lifted  and  burned  from  amber  to  rose — 
from  rose  to  ashen  gray. 

Then  he  climbed  soberly  to  his  seat  behind  the  mare 
and  drove  rapidly  down  the  long  slope,  plunging  into  a 
belt  of  dark  woods  at  its  foot,  to  emerge  onto  another 
hilly  steep,  rougher  and  stonier  than  the  first.  At  the 
top  of  the  hill  the  mare  stood  still,  greeting  with  a  joy 
ous  whinny  the  grizzled  collie  who  rushed  out  with 
tumultuous  barking  to  welcome  his  master. 

It  was  quite  dark  by  the  time  Moses  Armitage  made 
his  way  from  the  barn  through  the  pungent  tangle  of 
mayweed  to  his  own  gate.  The  collie  ran  confidently 
ahead;  then  paused  with  a  doubtful  growl  under  the 
shelter  of  the  porch.  The  keen  eyes  of  the  master  had 
already  detected  a  small,  huddled  shape  lying  prone 


84  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

against  the  door.  He  stooped  and  laid  a  large,  inves 
tigating  hand  upon  it;  something  soft  and  heaving  with 
warm  life  it  was.  The  quick  spurt  of  a  lighted  match 
revealed  it — a  sleeping  child  with  rosy  cheek  pillowed 
upon  brown  dimpled  hands. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  he  manifested 
no  surprise  at  this  unexpected  sight.  A  humorous 
smile  played  about  his  bearded  lips  as  he  cautiously 
made  his  way  past  the  sleeper  into  the  dark  room  be 
yond.  "Another  message  from  the  world,"  he  mur 
mured,  as  he  kindled  a  light;  "you  needn't  draw  in 
your  head  like  a  box-turtle,  you  old  hermit,  you! " 

Then  he  tiptoed  back  to  the  door,  and  with  a  warn 
ing  word  to  the  collie,  who  was  poking  a  cold  curious 
nose  into  the  face  of  the  sleeper,  he  lifted  the  child  and 
laid  him  carefully  upon  a  cushioned  settle.  The  little 
bare  limbs  stretched  themselves  luxuriously,  a  sigh  of 
content  breathed  from  the  parted  lips;  then  the  curly 
head  turned  away  from  the  disquieting  light,  and  the 
small  shoulders  once  more  heaved  with  the  long,  regu 
lar  breathing  of  unbroken  slumber. 

The  child  opened  his  eyes  upon  white  walls  flooded 
with  the  pink  light  of  morning,  shot  through  with 
golden  gleams,  and  seemingly  taking  its  rise  in  a  lovely 
greenish  shadow  whence  it  crept  in  tiny  ripples  inch 
by  inch  toward  the  ceiling.  The  small  body  still  tranced 
in  sleep  lay  motionless,  the  while  unwinking  eyes 
lulled  the  half  awakened  brain  with  the  unimagined 
splendor. 

After  a  little  he  began  to  remember  vaguely — a  dream 
perhaps  ?  His  lids  drooped  with  the  effort  to  recall 
the  vanished  pictures.  The  sombre  room,  the  black 
shape  heaped  with  ghostly  flowers,  the  meadow  sweet 


OL'  MOSE  85 

with  riotous  red  clover,  the  fluting  of  the  love-sick 
larks,  the  yellow-haired  child,  the  small  stout  figure  of 
the  old  woman,  all  trooped  confusedly  past  him.  A 
narrow  road  filled  with  hard,  round  stones  where  he 
bruised  his  naked  feet  and  wept  large  tears  next 
lengthened  interminably  before  him,  merging  at  last 
into  night,  with  solemn,  winking  stars,  and  a  cold  wind 
moaning  sadly  in  black  tree-tops.  Then  the  familiar 
outline  of  a  barn — a  house,  against  whose  closed  door 
he  huddled,  and  forgot  the  rest. 

Betwixt  the  cold  darkness  and  the  pink  dawn, 
stretched  the  long  white  bridge  of  sleep;  Immanuel, 
having  traversed  that  bridge,  found  himself  in  a  new 
country.  Realizing  the  fact  with  a  start,  he  sat  up 
and  looked  about  him  at  the  wide  expanse  of  an  un 
known  bed;  then  growing  bolder,  he  let  himself  cau 
tiously  down  to  a  painted  floor,  and  trotted  noiselessly 
toward  an  open  door.  Here  he  paused  to  peep  out. 
He  beheld  a  window  through  which  sunshine  streamed 
in  an  unbroken  flood,  and  just  beyond  its  yellow  square 
a  table  spread  with  a  white  cloth.  Upon  the  table 
were  a  number  of  objects  which  instantly  riveted  the 
explorer's  pleased  attention;  there  was  a  bowl  filled 
with  milk,  a  plate  containing  several  thick  slices  of 
brown  bread,  and  a  honeycomb  in  a  pink  saucer.  In 
the  centre  of  the  table  a  great,  handled  dish  of  blue  and 
white  held  masses  of  wild  roses. 

The  child  crept  nearer  to  this  inviting  table  by  slow 
degrees,  casting  bright  eyes  of  inquiry  at  the  paneled 
cupboard,  whose  glass  doors  revealed  other  curious 
dishes  of  blue  and  white;  at  the  great  empty  arm 
chair,  standing  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  sunshine;  at  the 
deep  leathern  couch,  with  its  single  pillow  of  vivid 


86  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

scarlet;  at  the  moon-faced  clock,  ticking  solemnly  in 
its  long  carved  case;  at  the  rows  upon  rows  of  books, 
which  filled  the  spaces  above  the  mantel,  over  and  be 
neath  the  windows  and  between  the  doors  from  floor 
to  ceiling. 

Having  approached  near  enough  to  catch  the  honest 
smell  of  the  brown  bread,  mingled  with  the  sweet 
creamy  odor  of  the  new  milk,  and  the  subtler  fragrance 
of  honey  and  wild  roses,  the  small  adventurer  drew  a 
long  breath.  Then  he  reached  out  a  cautious  forefinger 
and  touched  the  white  cloth.  A  silver  spoon  presented 
its  handle  in  convenient  proximity;  Immanuel  seized 
it;  his  eyes  sparkled.  He  was  suddenly  sure  that  here 
was  his  breakfast  spread  out  before  him.  He  also  re 
membered  the  object  of  his  journey.  As  he  tranquilly 
ate  the  bread  and  milk  he  fixed  expectant  eyes  on  the 
open  door. 

He  had  finished  the  last  drop  of  milk  in  the  bowl, 
when  "Ol'  Mose"  Armitage,  who  had  been  watching 
the  scene  with  keenest  satisfaction  from  the  cover  af 
forded  by  the  lilacs,  slowly  crossed  the  narrow  strip  of 
green  grass  and  stood-  in  the  doorway.  His  tall,  broad 
figure  cast  a  huge  shadow  across  the  yellow  floor;  his 
ruddy  face  beamed  through  cloudy  masses  of  snow- 
white  hair  and  beard  like  another  morning  sun;  his 
deep  eyes  full  of  dancing  light  questioned  the  brown 
eyes  lifted  to  meet  them. 

Immanuel  laid  down  his  spoon,  his  innocent  face 
shining  with  satisfaction,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

Ol'  Mose  stepped  across  the  threshold  and  sat  down 
in  the  armchair;  he  held  out  his  hand.  Obedient  to 
the  tacit  command  the  child  came  and  stood  at  his 
knee.  He  looked  up  into  the  penetrating  eyes  which 


OL'  MOSE  87 

were  bent  upon  his  face  and  smiled  his  bewitching 
smile. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from,  my  child  ?  " 

"I  came  a  long  way,  my  father,"  answered  Im- 
manuel  in  his  sweet,  clear  voice.  As  he  spoke  his 
little  brown  hand  stole  into  the  man's  broad  palm. 

"  But  how  did  you  come?" 

"I  walked — all  the  way.  It  was  a  long,  long  way. 
I  cried  in  the  dark.  But  I'm  glad  now."  He  evi 
denced  the  sincerity  of  his  words  by  a  joyous  little 
trill  of  laughter. 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  your  name  is,  little  one?" 

"My  name  is  'Manuel;  don't  you  remember?" 

"'Manuel — Immanuel,  which  is  it?" 

"Immanuel,"  said  the  boy  delightedly.  "It's  your 
name  too,  mummy  says." 

"Ah?"  said  Ol'  Mose  interrogatively.  "When 
did  mother  tell  you  that  ?  " 

"A  long  time  ago — more'n  a  year,  I  guess.  But 
she  did  tell  me,"  asserted  the  child. 

"Where  is  mother,  my  boy?" 

"She's  at  the  fun'ral.  I  cried;  I  don't  like  fun'rals, 
do  you  ? 

"No." 

Immanuel  felt  himself  suddenly  lifted  in  strong 
arms.  He  leaned  back  against  the  broad  breast  hap 
pily.  "I  love  you,"  he  murmured  in  the  sweetest  of 
child  voices.  "  I  shall  stay  with  you  always." 

"But  how  about  mother,  little  one;  wouldn't  you 
like  to  see  her  ?  "  asked  the  man. 

"Is  my  mother  here?"  said  the  child,  looking  up 
with  sparkling  eyes.  "  Oh,  yes,  let  us  find  her.  She 
is  so  beautiful;  I  love  her  too.  But  you  love  me 


88  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

more'n  mother  does,  more'n  mummy  does,  more'n 
anybody  else!  You  found  me  in  the  dark,  didn't 
you?" 

"I  found  you  asleep — right  out  here  on  the  porch." 
Ol'  Mose  set  the  child  on  his  feet  and  led  him  to  the 
door.  "Right  here,"  he  repeated.  "I  brought  you 
in  and  put  you  in  my  bed." 

Immanuel  nodded.  "'Course  you  did,"  he  said, 
laughing  aloud,  "wasn't  I  a  silly  to  be  'fraid  ?  " 

"Can  you  remember  which  way  you  came,  child?" 
asked  the  man  anxiously.  "  Mother  will  want  to  see 
you." 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "Mother  sees  me  all  the 
time,"  he  said  softly.  "  She'll  be  glad." 

"  Well,  then,  father  will  be  looking  for  his  boy;  we 
must  let  him  know  you  are  safe." 

"But  you  did  find  me — last  night,"  said  the  child 
wonderingly.  "I  want  to  stay  with  you  all  the  time. 
Mayn't  I  stay  with  you  all  the  time  ?  You  won't  send 
me  back  to  him?  No,  no!  I  can't  go  back  to  him!" 
He  clung  close  to  the  kind  fingers  with  a  sob,  his  dark 
eyes  wide  with  fear. 

Ol'  Mose  lifted  the  little  figure  in  his  arms.  "If 
there  is  any  great  hue  and  cry  after  the  boy,  some 
body  will  be  here  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two,"  he 
said  to  himself;  "and  somebody  deserves  a  good 
scare."  He  sat  down  in  his  great  chair  and  looked 
more  narrowly  at  his  find.  There  were  half  healed 
blisters  in  the  small  hands,  over  which  he  frowned  and 
shook  his  head.  The  clean,  carefully  made  garments 
with  tokens  of  mother  love  in  every  cunning  stitch 
told  another  story.  "Let  them  look,"  he  muttered, 
drawing  the  boy  closer  to  his  broad  chest.  "We'll 


OL'  MOSE  89 

give  these  blisters  a  chance  to  disappear."  He  touched 
the  largest  of  them  gently.  "How  was  it?"  he 
asked. 

"Working,"  answered  Immanuel  briefly.  "I  can 
work,"  he  added,  looking  up  wistfully  into  the  face 
which  bent  down  to  him.  "  1  can  hoe  and  weed  and 
do  chores."  He  sighed  deeply. 

"  Do  you  like  to  play  with  little  boys  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  There  were  boys  in  school — eh  ?" 

"I  didn't  go  to  school.  I  can  read  tho — a  little. 
Will  you  teach  me?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course  I  will,"  cried  Ol'  Mose,  his 
eyes  twinkling.  "  But  we  must  play  first.  Come, 
there  are  five  kittens  out  in  the  barn,  and  two  pup 
pies." 

Immanuel  wound  his  arms  about  the  old  man's 
neck.  "I'm  so  glad  I  found  you,  father,"  he  whis 
pered. 


CHAPTER  IX 
The  Making  of  a  Hermit 

THE  story  of  Moses  Armitage  was  not  a  singular 
one.  Briefly,  he  was  the  son  of  a  man  who  was 
wont  to  describe  himself  as  a  "  plain,  practical,  hard- 
headed  business  man."  The  particular  kind  of  busi 
ness  in  which  Moses  Armitage  senior  displayed  his 
plain,  practical,  hard-headed  qualities  was  primarily 
the  manufacture  and  sale  of  pickles,  of  which  the 
American  people  have  always  been  inordinately  fond, 
and  with  which  they  continue  to  set  the  teeth  of  un 
born  generations  on  edge,  both  literally  and  meta 
phorically,  Late  in  life  this  worthy  gentleman  married 
a  woman  who  was  neither  practical  nor  hard-headed, 
and  who  hated  pickles.  Finding  herself  grievously 
unhappy  with  her  loud-spoken,  burly,  red-faced  hus 
band,  Marion  Armitage  seized  an  early  opportunity  of 
undoing  her  mistake  by  slipping  away  through  the 
first  narrow  door  which  offered  escape — it  chanced 
to  be  pneumonia.  She  left  behind  her  two  sons,  little 
fellows  with  round,  ruddy  faces,  scarce  a  hand's 
breadth  apart  in  size. 

The  bereaved  father,  having  passed  through  that 
stage  of  paternal  indifference  wherein  his  boys  ap 
peared  to  him  very  much  in  the  light  of  a  brace  of 
healthy  puppies,  to  be  endured,  fondled  occasionally, 
but  for  the  most  part  relegated  to  hired  keepers,  dis- 

90 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  HERMIT  91 

covered  in  the  course  of  time  that  the  ruddy  faces  and 
stout-legged,  active  bodies  of  his  sons  represented 
totally  different  propositions.  The  older  son,  Moses, 
who  should  have  inherited  along  with  his  big  body 
his  father's  plain,  practical,  hard-headed  characteristics, 
was  found  to  have  foolishly  taken  after  his  mother; 
while  Jonas  with  his  mother's  small  and  less  robust 
physique  quickly  developed  a  keen  instinct  for  money- 
getting  and  money-saving  which  delighted  his  pro 
genitor. 

When  Moses  Armitage  senior,  slapping  his  broad 
knee  with  his  broad  palm,  a  comprehensive  frown  on 
his  broad  face,  declared,  "Jonas  is  my  sort;  but  Mose 
is  the  kind  of  fellow  I  haven't  any  use  for!" — why, 
all  was  said. 

Later  the  chasm  widened,  leaving  Moses  Armitage 
with  his  second  son  and  the  pickle  factory  on  the  one 
side,  and  the  oldest-born  on  the  other.  There  had 
been  a  stormy  scene  in  the  private  office  before  this 
cataclasm  took  place,  during  which  the  head  of  the 
house  had  raised  his  voice  to  such  a  pitch  that  the 
clerks  in  the  outer  office  grinned  and  winked  at  each 
other  over  their  ledgers. 

"College?  Bah!  Travel?  Stuff  and  nonsense! 
You've  proved  yourself  an  idle,  wool-gathering  ne'er- 
do-weel,  not  worth  your  salt.  Now  here's  my  last 
word  to  ye,  you'll  settle  down  to  business  with  your 
brother  here,  or  you  take  the  half  of  your  mother's 
money  and  go.  I'll  have  no  more  of  your  nonsense!  " 

Young  Moses  took  the  half  of  his  mother's  money 
and  went.  But  whither,  his  father  and  brother  snug 
behind  their  big  desks  in  the  private  office  of  the 
pickle  factory  neither  knew  nor  cared.  In  the  course 


92  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

of  years  marked  newspapers  mailed  from  widely  dif 
ferent  localities  informed  them  of  the  marriage  of 
Moses  Armitage  to  Ruth  Carlton,  and  of  the  death  of 
one,  Carlton  Armitage,  only  son  of  Moses  Armitage, 
aged  six  years. 

Jonas  Armitage  sat  alone  in  the  private  off^e  when 
he  read  the  last-mentioned  item.  He  was  dressed  in 
black  clothes,  at  which  he  glanced  with  a  curious  ex 
pression  on  his  thin,  sallow  face.  "I  might  return  the 
compliment,"  he  muttered,  "  only  I'm  sure  the  fellow 
hasn't  a  sixpence  to  his  name  by  this  time.  He'd  kick 
up  the  deuce  of  a  row,  and  try  to  break  the  will  like 
as  not." 

Mr.  Jonas  Armitage  was  wrong  in  certain  of  his 
conclusions.  A  large  share  of  the  maternal  fortune 
had  indeed  found  its  way  through  the  careless  fingers 
of  the  wanderer;  but  in  late  middle  life  the  primal  de 
sire  to  possess  earth,  rocks  and  trees  had  taken  hold 
on  him.  "I  will  go,"  he  said  to  the  city  real  estate 
agent,  "to  the  place  where  my  money  will  buy  the 
greatest  number  of  acres."  And  so  it  was  that  Moses 
Armitage  brought  his  wife  to  the  weather-beaten  little 
house  on  the  hill-road  between  Turner's  Crossroads 
and  Tacitus  Four  Corners.  They  were  very  poor,  for 
the  land  yielded  little  but  beauty.  After  a  time  Ruth 
Armitage  shut  her  tired  brown  eyes  on  the  misty  val 
ley  and  was  laid  to  rest  beside  her  six  year  old  son  in 
the  desolate  graveyard  behind  the  Crossroad's  church. 

Moses  Armitage  lived  on  alone  in  the  gray  old  house, 
and  the  silent  years  brought  him  resignation  with 
white  hairs;  and  after  resignation  a  kind  of  tranquil 
happiness,  which  grew  apace  till  life's  barren  landscape 
turned  to  gold  under  calm  evening  skies.  There  was 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  HERMIT  93 

happiness  in  the  long  winter  evenings  when  the  red 
logs  turned  to  silver  ash  in  the  old  stone  fireplace,  and 
the  lamp  cast  a  mellow  light  on  pages  beloved  as 
familiar  faces.  There  was  happiness  in  the  dark, 
sweet-smelling  pine  woods  on  a  spring  day,  when  the 
sombre  aisles  framed  bright  pictures  of  sky  and  field. 
There  was  happiness  in  the  first  faint  gurgle  of  blue 
birds  singing  in  pink,  frosty  dawns.  There  was  hap 
piness — nay,  there  was  ecstasy  under  broad  apple 
boughs  loaded  with  odorous  bloom,  in  the  earliest 
white  violet  pouring  out  its  soul  under  vivid  blue  skies 
of  May. 

A  stray  passer-by  once  came  upon  Moses  Armitage 
as  he  knelt  in  the  grass  gazing  at  a  clump  of  late  dan 
delions,  which  flaunted  all  the  bravery  of  spring  suns 
in  the  face  of  winter.  He  went  away  and  told  of  it 
in  the  bar-room  of  the  village  tavern  amid  the  loud 
empty  braying  of  fools'  laughter. 

"Th'  ol'  cuss  looked  like  he  was  actooally  a-prayin' 
to  them  weeds — he,  he!  "  declared  the  astute  observer. 
"  He's  as  crazy  as  a  loon,  he  is,  an'  ort  by  rights  to  be 
occ'pyin'  a  room  to  the  county-house,  whar  he'd  be 
looked  arter.  His  land's  a-goin'  plumb  to  waste!  " 

The  Rev.  Zenas  Meek,  pastor  of  the  Methodist 
church  in  Turner's  Crossroads  once  included  the 
hermit  in  a  round  of  parochial  visits.  He  found  him 
at  work  among  his  beehives,  which  stood  in  a  long 
row  behind  the  house.  "  Good-day,  my  dear,  impeni 
tent  friend,"  began  the  Reverend  Meek,  with  what  he 
plainly  supposed  to  be  an  apostolic  tone  and  gesture 
—tempered  with  charity,  yet  sharply  spiced  with 
godly  authority,  "1  am  on  the  Lord's  business,  an'  it 
requires  haste!  " 


94  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Moses  Armitage  turned  his  ruddy  face  upon  his  vis 
itor  with  a  quizzical  smile.  "If  you  come  too  near, 
sir,"  he  said  gently,  "you'll  shortly  be  in  haste  for 
more  reasons  than  one.  The  bees  are  a  bit  out  of 
temper  to-day,  and  they'll  find  you  a  shining  mark." 

The  Reverend  Meek  had  removed  his  hat,  and  was 
wiping  his  heated  forehead  with  a  large,  damp  hand 
kerchief.  "Good  Lord!"  he  exclaimed  profanely,  as 
an  indignant  bee  thrust  its  lightning  lancet  into  a  spot 
of  undefended  territory. 

His  rapid  footsteps  beating  a  hasty  retreat  around 
the  corner  of  the  house,  and  the  agitated  rattle  of 
wagon  wheels  brought  a  quiet  twinkle  to  the  blue  eyes 
of  the  bee-keeper.  The  next  day  the  Reverend  Meek 
found  on  his  door-step  a  basket  containing  certain 
squares  of  white  clover  honey,  and  a  slip  of  paper 
which  bore  the  words:  "With  humble  apologies 
from  the  Queen  Bee."  There  was  no  apology  from 
the  master  of  the  bees,  the  reverend  gentleman  re 
marked.  He  and  his  family  ate  the  honey;  they  also 
found  the  basket  convenient  for  collecting  other  pas 
toral  aliment. 

Later  he  mentioned  Moses  Armitage  to  his  successor 
as  a  hoary  old  reprobate,  dead  in  trespasses  and  sins. 
That  zealous  laborer  in  the  Lord's  vineyard  early  dis 
charged  his  responsibilities  by  leaving  a  bundle  of 
tracts  on  the  door-step  of  the  lonely  house  on  the  back 
hill-road. 

Moses  Armitage,  returning  from  a  long  tramp  in  the 
crisp  autumn  air,  found  them  there.  He  examined  the 
packet  with  a  faint  throb  of  pleasure.  Some  one  had 
remembered  him!  Ten  minutes  thereafter  the  sleepy 
embers  in  the  fireplace  waked  into  merry  life  as  they 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  HERMIT  95 

devoured  "The  Eternal  Torments  of  the  Damned/' 
"  To  a  Lost  Soul  on  the  Brink  of  Eternity  "  and  "The 
Unpardonable  Sin." 

The  blue  eyes  under  the  frosty  brows  sparkled  in 
dignantly  as  they  watched  the  leaping  flames;  then  as 
the  charred  fragments  danced  merrily  up  the  black 
throat  of  the  chimney  they  softened  into  a  smile.  "  So 
perish  all  lies!"  quoth  the  hermit;  then  fetched  him 
a  great  volume  bound  sumptuously  in  gilded  leather 
and  washed  the  last  acrid  flavor  of  false  theology  with 
such  draughts  as  these.1 

"Religion  is  not  a  business  by  and  for  itself,  which 
a  man  may  practice  apart  from  his  other  occupations, 
perhaps  on  certain  fixed  days  and  hours.  It  is  the  in 
most  spirit  of  Love  that  penetrates,  inspires  and  per 
vades  all  our  actions,  which  in  other  respects  pursue 
their  appointed  course  without  change  or  interruption. 
That  the  divine  life  and  energy  actually  lives  in  us  is 
inseparable  from  religion,  I  said: 

"  'Lord!  let  but  thy  will  be  done,  then  is  mine  done 
also;  for  I  have  no  other  will  than  this — that  thy  will 
be  done! '  .  .  . 

"This  divine  life  now  continually  develops  itself 
within  him,  without  hindrance  or  obstruction,  as  it  can 
and  must  develop  itself  only  in  him  and  his  individu 
ality.  His  will  is  therefore  always  accomplished,  and 
it  is  absolutely  impossible  that  anything  contrary  to  it 
should  ever  come  to  pass. 

"  Whatever  happens  about  him,  nothing  seems  to 
him  strange  or  unaccountable.  He  knows  assuredly, 
whether  he  understand  it  or  no,  that  it  is  God's  world, 

1  Fichte. 


96  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

and  that  there  nothing  can  be  that  does  not  directly 
tend  to  good.  In  him  is  no  fear  for  the  future,  for  the 
fountain  of  all  blessedness  eternally  bears  him  on  to 
ward  it;  no  sorrow  for  the  past,  for  in  so  far  as  he 
w;as  not  in  God  he  was  nothing,  and  this  is  now  at  an 
end.  For  him  all  labor  and  effort  have  vanished;  his 
whole  outward  existence  flows  forth  softly,  gently 
from  his  inward  being,  and  issues  forth  into  reality 
without  difficulty  or  hindrance. 

"Full  surely  there  lies  a  blessedness  beyond  the 
grave  for  him  who  has  already  entered  upon  it  here, 
and  in  no  other  form  or  way  than  that  by  which  he 
can  enter  upon  it  at  this  very  moment.  By  mere 
burial  one  cannot  arrive  at  blessedness:  in  the  future 
life  and  throughout  the  infinite  range  of  all  future  life 
he  would  seek  for  happiness  as  vainly  as  he  has  already 
sought  it,  if  he  were  to  seek  it  in  aught  else  than  in 
that  which  already  surrounds  him  so  closely  that 
throughout  eternity  it  can  never  be  brought  nearer — 
the  Infinite  Lovel " 


CHAPTER  X 
A  Story 

AS  the  days  passed  and  no  anxious  father,  no 
breathless,  wild-eyed  mother  appeared  to  claim 
the  child,  Moses  Armitage  began  to  hope  that  this  hu 
man  birdling  which  had  somehow  fluttered  away  from 
its  nest  might  be  his.  The  eternal  kindness  had  never 
seemed  so  immanent,  the  infinite  love  so  near  and 
warm  as  when  he  looked  into  the  clear  shining  depths 
of  the  child's  eyes.  Words  spoken  long  ago  by  the 
one  man  who  was  aware  of  his  origin  came  to  him 
with  a  new  meaning:  "He  that  receiveth  one  such 
little  child,  receiveth  me." 

The  child  had  slipped  into  this  solitary  life  as  noise 
less  and  as  cheerful  as  a  sunbeam  which  finds  its  way 
through  shuttered  windows.  Nothing  was  changed, 
yet  all  was  changed.  Two  now  sat  at  the  round  table, 
and  the  divided  bread  became  a  feast;  two  wandered 
over  upland  meadows  and  gathered  flowers  and  ber 
ries  in  fragrant  solitudes,  while  the  cruel  blisters  healed 
apace  in  the  little  hands;  two  sat  in  the  great  chair  in 
the  tranquil  evenings,  till  the  child  slumbered  happily 
on  the  man's  broad  breast. 

Moses  Armitage  was  a  poet  though  he  wrote  no 
rhymes;  so  it  did  not  occur  to  him,  as  to  a  more  prac 
tical  man,  to  proclaim  his  new  found  treasure. 
Strange  dreams  began  to  weave  their  misty  cobwebs 

97 


98  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

in  his  brain.  This  child,  who  had  come  to  him  out 
of  the  dark  (he  thought)  and  who  called  him  father, 
was  his  very  own,  blessedly  restored  to  him  through 
the  mercies  of  omnipotent  Love.  This  fancy  was 
strengthened  by  the  wonderful  likeness  which  the  boy, 
Immanuel,  bore  to  his  own  dead  son;  a  likeness  which 
went  deeper  than  the  mere  curve  of  an  olive  cheek  or 
the  trick  of  a  drooped  eyelash.  It  looked  out  from  the 
serious  eyes,  sounded  in  the  sweet,  penetrating  voice, 
found  expression  in  a  thousand  attitudes  and  gestures. 
This  was  the  dimmed  picture  of  his  vanished  joy 
flashed  once  more  into  vivid  life;  his  beloved  son, 
come  back  to  him  across  the  empty  chasm  of  time  and 
night,  newly  named  by  the  angels,  Immanuel. 

As  for  the  child,  he  believed  that  he  had  found  in 
this  man  his  eternal  Father;  in  his  happy  eyes  the  tran 
quil  little  house  was  heaven. 

Moses  Armitage,  wrapped  in  his  poet's  dream,  did 
not  discover  this  till  the  two  had  lived  together  while 
the  moon  grew  from  its  slender  crescent  to  the  full. 
They  stood  at  the  verge  of  the  hill,  while  the  great  orb 
swung  slowly  aloft  into  mid-heaven. 

"Did  you  make  it,  father?"  asked  the  child,  point 
ing  his  finger  at  the  silver  disk;  "  or  did  it  grow  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  did  not  make  it,"  said  Moses  Armitage 
gravely.  "Yes,  I  think  it  grew." 

"But  mummy  told  me  that  you  made  everything 
pretty  that  I  liked — everything  pretty  an' — an' 
me." 

The  man  shook  his  head  with  a  troubled  look. 
"  Who  do  you  think  I  am,  little  one?"  The  question 
died  on  his  lips.  When  a  mystery  is  sweet  like  the 
heart  of  a  rose  why  tear  it  apart  with  rude  fingers  ? 


A  STORY  99 

"Who  am  I,  child;  why  do  you  love  me?"  The 
deep  voice  was  firm  and  compelling  now. 

"I  love  you  'cause  you — you  are — my  father,"  fal 
tered  Immanuel.  "You  are  God.  I  wanted  you!  I 
can't  go  back  to  him — oh,  I  can't  go  back  to 
him  !  " 

Moses  Armitage  lifted  the  small  trembling  figure  and 
held  it  fast.  "  We  will  go  in  now,  my  child,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "I  have  a  story  to  tell  you."  Strange 
words  rose  unbidden  to  his  thought.  "Even  as  I  am 
sent  into  the  world,  so  send  I  you.  He  that  hath  seen 
me  hath  seen  the  Father." 

In  the  depths  of  the  big  armchair  the  two  set  them 
selves  to  understand  the  mystery  of  God  in  his  world. 
Moses  Armitage  told  the  story  that  he  had  promised, 
slowly,  and  with  thoughtful  pauses.  The  child  sat  on 
his  knee  and  looked  at  him  with  a  shining  face. 

"Once  upon  a  time,''  began  the  old  man,  smiling 
into  the  wistful  brown  eyes  uplifted  to  his,  "there 
was  a  little  child  born.  He  slept  at  first,  and  seemed 
to  think  of  nothing  but  his  food,  just  as  all  little  babies 
do.  But  he  grew  very  fast,  and  after  awhile  he  began 
to  look  at  the  things  about  him  with  his  beautiful  dark 
eyes;  and  then  he  commenced  to  have  thoughts.  Do 
you  know  what  thoughts  are  ?" 

The  child  nodded.  "The  think  goes  all  the  time," 
he  said; — "  except  when  I'm  asleep." 

"Yes,"  said  Moses  Armitage,  sighing  a  little,  "the 
think  goes  all  the  time.  This  child's  thoughts  were 
busy  and  constant,  like  a  little  fountain  of  pure  spark 
ling  water;  and  that  is  the  most  wonderful  thing 
about  this  boy,  his  thoughts  were  always  beautiful 
and  pleasant  and  true.  As  he  went  on  thinking  they 


ioo  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

grew  more  and  more  delightful.  When  he  was  quite 
a  little  child  he  understood  clearly  that  the  great  God 
who  made  all  things  was  his  Father." 

"  He  was  just  like  me,  wasn't  he  ?  "  cried  Immanuel 
delightedly. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling  back  into  the 
sparkling  face,  "  he  was  your  brother.  As  he  grew 
older  this  boy  was  always  thinking  about  his  Father, 
and  because  one  very  quickly  becomes  the  exact  image 
on  the  outside  of  what  one  is  thinking  inside,  he  grew 
more  strong  and  beautiful  and  wise  every  day;  he 
was  very  soon  wiser  than  any  other  boy  in  the  vil 
lage, — wiser  even  than  men  who  had  studied  all  their 
lives  out  of  big  books.  After  awhile  he  was  grown 
into  a  strong  young  man;  and  I  am  sure  he  had  the 
kindest,  sweetest,  most  cheerful  face  in  the  world, 
for  by  this  time  he  had  found  out  something  won 
derful;  something  that  nobody  else  in  all  the  world 
had  ever  thought  of." 

"What  was  it?" 

"I  am  coming  to  that  pretty  soon,  my  boy.  People 
had  believed  that  God  made  the  great  world  with  his 
two  hands,  with  all  its  mountains  and  oceans,  its 
trees,  grass,  animals,  and  last  of  all  men;  and  that 
when  all  was  finished  he  went  to  live  somewhere 
away  up  in  the  sky,  where  he  sat  always  on  a  high 
throne  watching  the  people  down  on  the  world  he 
had  made.  He  often  grew  very  angry  with  them 
when  they  made  mistakes  (they  thought)  and  punished 
them  cruelly.  Of  course  the  people  were  very  much 
afraid  of  this  big,  fierce  God  on  his  high  throne,  and 
tried  in  very  strange  ways  to  gain  his  favor,  and  to 
excuse  themselves  for  what  they  supposed  to  be 


A  STORY  101 

wrong  and  foolish.  They  used  to  kill  their  prettiest 
and  fattest  animals,  and  burn  them  on  piles  of  stone 
which  they  heaped  together.  They  also  burned  their 
best  apples  and  pears  and  grapes.  They  thought  this 
God  up  in  the  sky  would  smell  the  smoke  as  it  rose  in 
the  air,  and  that  he  would  be  pleased  to  think  they 
had  given  up  their  nicest  things  instead  of  eating  them 
as  they  wanted  to  do.  Some  people  even  took  their 
dear  little  children  and  burned  them  up,  for  they 
thought  if  God  liked  animals  to  be  burned  for  him,  he 
would  like  nice,  pretty  little  children  still  better.  It 
was  very  sad  and  all  wrong;  but  people  always  act 
out  on  the  outside  just  what  they  are  thinking  on  the 
inside.  They  can't  help  it,  for  the  real  self  is  the 
'  think  '  as  you  call  it. 

"Now  this  young  man  who  had  never  thought  any 
thing  but  true  thoughts  had  discovered  that  God  not 
only  made  all  things,  but  that  he  was  all  things.  In 
stead  of  being  a  big  man,  sitting  on  a  tall  throne 
somewhere  off  in  the  sky,  God  was  the  unseen, 
living  presence,  under  and  in  all  things.  He  was  both 
the  thought  and  the  thinker,  the  real  behind  the  seen. 
Do  you  understand  what  1  mean  ?" 

The  child  nodded;  his  large  eyes  shining  like  stars. 

"  Now  this  was  a  very  wonderful  discovery,  and  the 
knowledge  of  it  would  make  everything  in  the  whole 
world  different.  The  young  man  saw  very  plainly 
that  no  one,  not  even  the  wisest  of  the  people,  knew 
what  he  did,  so  he  set  himself  very  patiently  to  teach 
them  to  love  the  true  God,  who  was  the  loving 
Father  of  all.  But  the  people  were  proud;  they  said, 
'  How  can  this  fellow  who  is  only  a  carpenter's  son, 
very  poor  and  ignorant,  know  more  than  we  who  have 


102  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

studied  out  of  big  books  all  our  lives?'  At  first  they 
did  not  pay  much  attention  to  what  he  said  or  did; 
they  thought  it  was  not  worth  while;  but  the  people 
who  were  poor,  and  those  who  were  sick,  and  many 
who  were  simply  idle  and  full  of  curiosity  began  to 
follow  this  strong,  beautiful,  pleasant  spoken  young 
man  about  the  country  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say, 
and  to  see  the  very  wonderful  things  which  he  did. 
Then  those  persons  who  supposed  themselves  to  be  so 
wise  and  learned  began  to  be  jealous  and  to  hate  him. 
They  said,  '  If  this  man  keeps  on  talking  nobody  will 
pay  any  attention  to  us; ' — which  was  quite  true,  for 
they  were  very  stupid  indeed,  as  you  will  see  when  I 
show  you  some  of  the  books  they  studied  and  wrote." 

"What  did  they  do?" 

"The  stupidest  and  crudest  thing  they  could  think 
of,  my  child;  they  took  this  beautiful,  gentle,  loving 
man,  who  was  trying  to  make  the  world  into  heaven, 
and  killed  him.  That  is  they  tried  to;  they  couldn't 
kill  him  you  see,  because  the  God  in  him  could  not  be 
killed." 

"  Didn't  any  one  love  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  all  the  children  loved  him,  and  a  few  of  the 
grown-up  people,  who  hadn't  forgotten  their  child 
thoughts  altogether.  Some  of  them  wrote  down  a 
few  of  the  things  he  said  and  did  soon  after  he  left  the 
earth.  I  will  read  to  you  out  of  their  books  some  day. 
But  there  is  even  a  better  way  than  reading  books  to 
know  what  he  knew.  Can  you  think  what  it  is  ?" 

The  child  looked  down  at  his  folded  hands  in  silence 
for  a  moment;  then  he  said  slowly,  "If  I  should  have 
the  God  think  in  me,  I  should  know,  shouldn't  I  ?" 

"Yes,   my  boy,   you  would,  and  there   isn't   any 


A  STORY  103 

other  way.  Once  the  man  explained  this  very  simply 
to  his  friends.  '  The  Spirit  of  your  Father  in  you,'  he 
said,  'will  teach  you.'" 

' '  But  I  thought  you  were  my  father ;  what  are  you  ?  " 

"I  am  your  father — but  not  all  there  is  of  him. 
When  1  love  you  I  am  truly  a  part  of  him,— just  as  a 
single  letter  on  the  page  of  this  book  is  a  part  of  the 
whole  book.  We  are  meant  to  read  it  all,  my  child; 
but  we  must  begin  with  the  letters." 

The  boy  threw  his  arms  about  the  old  man's  neck. 
"I  am  glad!''  he  cried,  then  was  silent  for  so  long  a 
time  that  the  other  wondered.  "I  have  a  book,"  he 
said  at  last;  "  it  tells  about  my  Father;  mummy  keeps 
it  in  the  spare  room,  under  the  bolster  of  the  bed.  1 
should  like  to  see  mummy,  she  loves  me  too." 

Moses  Armitage  drew  the  child  a  little  closer.  "Tell 
me  about  mummy,"  he  said;  "when  did  she  go 
away  ?" 

"  She  didn't  go  away!  "  cried  Immanuel  in  a  tone  of 
surprise.  "She  corned  to  the  fun'ral  with  me.  I  cried 
'cause  I  didn't  like  fun'rals,  an'  mummy  told  me  to  go 
outdoors  an'  not  to  come  back.  Only  some  of  the 
people  can  cry  at  fun'rals.  I  was  a  naughty  boy  to 
cry,  mummy  said  so." 

"You  went  outdoors  because  you  cried,"  repeated 
the  man,  "  and  then  ?" 

"Why  then  I  went  under  a  tree,  an'  he  came  an' 
talked.  I  was  frightened.  He  hurts  me  sometimes. 
He  didn't  see  me,  an'  I  went  into  the  meadow,  an'— 
oh,  such  a  long,  long  way!  But  I  didn't  spoil  my  Sun 
day  shoes.  I  took  them  off,  an'  my  best  hat — it  makes 
my  chin  ache.  There  were  berries,  an'  a  little  girl  an' 
a  big  lady — two  ladies.  She  gave  me  a  doughnut. 


104  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

But  I  wanted  to  find  my  father,  so  I  went  on.  It  was 
dark  an'  I  hurt  my  foot.  Then  it  was  morning,  an'  I 
was  here — with  you.  I  should  like  to  see  mummy," 
he  added  in  a  subdued  voice.  "  She  loves  me." 

"But  you  told  me  mother  was  in  heaven,  my 
child." 

"Not  'Liz'beth;  'Liz'beth  has  to  make  butter  an' feed 
the  chickens;  she  hasn't  got  no  time  to  fool  away. 
My  other  mother — the  beautiful  lady — I  only  see  her 
sometimes  when  I'm  most  asleep." 

Moses  Armitage  sat  for  a  long  time  in  his  great  chair 
that  night,  holding  the  sleeping  child.  Again  he 
scanned  the  still  face  feature  by  feature.  "  Have  I  for 
gotten  ?"  he  said  aloud;  "  or  have  my  eyes  grown  dim 
of  late,  so  that  I  see  what  was  but  is  not." 

Tenderly  he  laid  the  child  in  his  bed  and  fell  to  search 
ing  among  his  papers,  presently  bringing  to  light  a  tin 
type,  taken  years  before  in  a  traveling  car  which  had 
stopped  at  the  hospitable  spring  by  the  barn.  It  was 
a  picture  of  his  own  boy,  Carlton,  dead  thirty  years; 
but  it  might  have  served  as  a  portrait  of  the  child  who 
slept.  There  was  the  same  delicate  oval  face,  shaded 
with  short  clustering  curls,  the  same  eager  dark  eyes, 
the  same  bewitching  smile.  "  No,  I  was  not  mistaken," 
murmured  the  man,  shaking  his  white  head  with  a 
troubled  smile;  "the  boy  is  Carlton  himself."  As  he 
thrust  the  picture  away  with  a  trembling  hand,  a  legal- 
looking  envelope  fell  from  the  disordered  mass  of  pa 
pers  and  lay,  superscription  up,  on  the  lid  of  his  desk. 
The  seal  was  unbroken  and  as  Moses  Armitage  re 
garded  it  wonderingly,  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  was 
curiously  linked  with  the  finding  of  the  boy. 

It  was  a  short  letter  type-written  on  a  large  sheet  of 


A  STORY  105 

bluish  paper.  He  read  it  three  times.  Then  he  dropped 
heavily  into  his  chair  and  wiped  the  moisture  from  his 
forehead.  "So  they  are  all  dead!"  he  said  aloud, 
"all  dead,  and  the  accursed  money  is  left!  " 


CHAPTER  XI 
'Liz'beth 

BY  the  time  the  "hired  kerridge"  had  left  Erastus 
Winch  at  his  own  door,  on  the  day  of  the  funeral, 
he  had  formulated  certain  plans  for  his  future  course, 
which  appeared  to  him  very  original  and  wise.  "I'll 
let  her  know  what's  what,  fust  thing  I  do,"  he  mut 
tered,  as  he  ascended  the  kitchen  stoop  with  slow, 
threatening  tread.  "  Arter  that,  why,  I'll  tan  that  'ar 
young  un's  hide  so't  he  won't  never  forgit  who's  boss 
here! " 

He  laid  hold  upon  the  latch  with  truculent  fingers. 
"I'll  show  her 'at  I  ain't  to  be  monkeyed  with! "  he 
growled;  then  his  jaw  dropped.  "What  in  thunder? 
Humph!  the  critter  ain't  home  yit.  Hangin'  round  to 
gossip,  I'll  bet!  I  tol'  her  she  wa'n't  to  go  up  to  the 
cem'tery.  She'd  ought  to  ha'  been  here  long  ago." 

When,  after  an  hour  or  more  spent  in  aimless  wan 
dering  about  the  silent  house,  in  the  course  of  which 
he  lavished  his  entire  vocabulary  of  drastic  phrases 
upon  the  empty  air,  the  quick  beat  of  hoofs  and  the 
rattle  of  light  wheels  announced  the  return  of  Elizabeth, 
he  merely  grunted. 

"  Oh,  'Rastus  ! "  faltered  the  woman,  with  a  quick, 
fearful  glance  into  the  scowling  face;  "do  tell  if  he's 
come  home! " 

"  Who's  come  home  ?  What  ye  talkin'  'bout  ?  An' 
1 06 


'LIZ'BETH  107 

say,  what  in  creation  d'ye  mean  by  stayin'  away  like 
this  ?  Here  I've  been  a-hangin'  'round  waitin'  on  ye 
sence  four  o'clock!  No  supper — nothin'!  An'  you 
with  the  key  in  yer  pocket.  Han'  it  out  now,  and  git 
in  the  house,  an'  ten'  to  yer  bizness  lively!  You  kin 
bet  you'll  stay  to  hum  arter  this!  " 

"  I — I  couldn't  help  it,  'Rastus.  Oh,  I'm  mos'  crazy! 
I  let  'Manuel  go  out  in  the  yard,  an'  when  I  come  to 
look  fur  him  after  you  was  all  gone  to  the  cem'tery,  I 
couldn't  fin'  him  nowheres!  An'  he  ain't  come  home 
—I  see  he  ain't!  What  shall  I  do;  it's  most  dark 
a'ready! " 

"  You  kin  come  in  the  house  an'  git  supper  an'  stop 
yer  gab,  or  by  thunder,  I'll — I'll  hit  ye."  Erastus  Winch 
had  never  touched  his  wife  save  with  the  lash  of  his 
tongue;  but  now  his  face  grew  purple  with  suppressed 
rage;  his  great  hands  clenched  themselves.  "I've 
heerd  'bout  yer  low-down,  sneakin'  tricks,"  he  yelled; 
"  a-coaxin'  Liph  Dundor  to  stick  his  nose  into  my  biz- 
ness.  I  wonder  ye  ain't  'shamed  to  look  me  in  the 
face.  When  ye  do  fin'  the  brat  you  kin  lay  to  one 
thing,  Mis'  Winch,  he'll  git  his  sneakin'  little  hide 
tanned  in  a  way  he  won't  furgit,  neryou  neither." 

Elizabeth  climbed  slowly  down  over  the  wagon 
wheel.  She  reeled  slightly  as  she  passed  into  the 
kitchen.  "O  God,  I  hope  you've  took  him,"  she 
moaned,  as  her  trembling  hands  fumbled  aimlessly 
with  her  bonnet  strings.  "  H'd  be  better  off — better 
off." 

She  made  no  further  mention  of  the  lost  child  that 
day,  nor  the  next.  Then  visions  of  his  little  figure 
wandering  in  dark  stretches  of  woods,  or  lying  white 
and  cold  in  some  neglected  field  urged  her  out  and 


io8  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

away.  Day  after  day  she  thrust  her  duties  from  her 
with  frantic  hands  to  search  and  call,  "  'Manuel,  'Manuel ! 
Oh,  'Manuel,  where  be  you  ?" 

Erastus  Winch,  having  emptied  the  windy  chambers 
of  his  wrath  upon  her  bowed  head,  and  discovering  to 
his  dismay  that  she  cared  not  a  whit  for  his  bitterest  ful- 
minations,  actually  shook  her  one  morning  till  the  teeth 
chattered  in  her  head.  "  I  b'lieve  you're  a-goin'  plumb 
crazy,"  he  cried.  "  You  look  like  it,  by  thunder!  " 

Elizabeth  stared  at  him  with  glassy  eyes.  "I  want 
'Manuel,"  was  all  she  said. 

Winch  cast  a  glowering  look  about  the  disordered 

kitchen.     "  By  thunder! "  he  repeated,  "  what  in 

Then  he  stopped  short.  "Say,  'Liz'beth,"  he  burst 
out,  "ef  you'll  quit  this  doggoned  foolin',  I'm  blamed 
if  I  won't  let  ye  take  the  team  an'  look  fur  the  young  un. 
Say,  I'll  go  with  ye.  He's  prob'ly  snuger  an'  a  bug  in 
some  farmhouse  up  on  the  hill.  Little  rat,  I  wish't  I 
had  him  here  this  minit,  I'd  — 

The  woman  burst  into  frantic  sobbing.  "I  hope 
he's  dead,"  she  wailed.  "  He'd  be  better  dead."  The 
dry  sobs  ceased  as  suddenly  as  they  had  begun.  "I 
hope  he's  dead,"  she  repeated  in  the  lifeless  tone  of 
settled  anguish.  Her  worn  fingers  picked  nervously  at 
her  apron  strings.  "I've  tol'  his  mother 'at  I  hope 
she'll  fin'  him.  I  seen  her  las'  night  in  the  barn  over  by 
the  haymow,  but  he  wa'n't  with  her." 

The  man's  hair  bristled.  "I — I  say,  'Liz'beth,"  he 
began  after  a  long  silence,  "we — we'll  go  an'  look  fur 
the  boy.  Yes,  you  an'  me,  we'll  both  go.  It's  time  to 
cut  the  oats,  an'  I  ain't  got  a  minit  to  fool  away;  but — 

but Why,  you  know,  'Liz'beth,  we  can't  go  on 

this  way— eh  ?  "     He  sidled  a  little  nearer  to  the  gray, 


'LIZ'BETH  109 

impassive  figure.  "I — I. — Mebbe  I  was  a  leetle  ha'sh 
with  the  boy.  I  say,  'Liz'beth,  I'll  let  you  run  him 
arter  this,  any  way  you  want.  I  won't  whip  him  no 
more,  I  swan  I  won't,  ef  you — ef  you ' 

There  was  no  reply.  The  still  face  looked  as  if 
carved  from  granite.  "  I'm  a-goin'  out  to  hitch  up  the 
critters  now,"  he  went  on,  raising  his  voice.  "You 
git  on  yer  bunnit  an'  be  ready  when  1  come  'round — 
won't  ye,  'Liz'beth  ?" 

He  turned  and  strode  heavily  out  toward  the  barn, 
his  rugged  face  working  strangely.  "What  in  all 
creation  'ud  I  do,"  he  mattered,  "  ef  'Liz'beth — 'Liz' 
beth  "  His  dim  eyes  fell  upon  a  straggling  bush 

of  cinnamon  rose,  dusty  and  forlorn  in  the  hot  August 
weather,  and  visions  long  forgotten  lifted  above  the 
seething  surface  of  his  thought.  He  beheld  Elizabeth, 
a  bride  of  twenty,  roses  blooming  in  her  round  cheeks 
and  nodding  above  her  hat-brim.  He  saw  himself 
proud  and  awkward  in  his  wedding  clothes,  stooping 
to  gather  a  bunch  of  half-opened  buds.  "  You're  nigh 
as  pink  an'  purty  as  the  posies,"  he  had  said,  and 
kissed  the  sweet  curve  of  her  smiling  lips.  How  long 
— how  long  ago  it  was!  "I  guess  I've  been  kind  of 
ha'sh  with  'Liz'beth,"  he  groaned,  his  eyes  still  riveted 
on  the  withered  thing  at  his  feet.  "  But  it  was  all  that 
pesky  young  one;  ef  it  hadn't  ha'  been  fur  him,  we'd 
been  all  right." 

To  his  immense  relief  Elizabeth  stood  on  the  stoop, 
bonneted  and  shawled,  as  he  drove  up.  "  I  think  I'm 
mighty  good  to  ye,  'Liz'beth,"  he  began  in  a  complain 
ing  tone,  his  every-day  self  reasserting  itself  with  sud 
den  strength.  "  By  rights  I'd  ought  to  be  a-harvestin', 
an'  you  know  it  's  well's  I  do.  I  tol'  ye  when  you 


I  io  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

would  keep  that  boy  'at  you'd  be  sorry  for  it.  I  knew 
you  would,  well  'nough.  You'd  ought  to  ha'  done  as 
I  said." 

The  two  were  driving  briskly  along  the  dusty  road 
at  this  point  in  Mr.  Winch's  agreeable  monologue. 
"Now,  this  'ere's  a  fool  job  ef  I  ever  heerd  o'  one,"  he 
continued,  his  gorge  rising  at  sight  of  the  ten-acre  lot 
brimming  over  with  ripened  grain,  "  a  durned  fool  job, 
an'  when  it's  done  you'll  remember,  Mis'  Winch,  'at 
you've  'greed  to  brace  up  an'  quit  yer  nonsense.  Ef 
we  fin'  the  boy,  well  an'  good;  we'll  fetch  him  home 
an'  you  kin  send  him  to  deestric'  school,  or  anythin1 
you  please;  I  wash  my  han's  of  him  f'om  now  on.  Ef 
we  don't  fin'  him,  I'll  not'fy  the  overseer  of  the  poor 
an'  let  him  take  the  job  in  han';  but  he  don't  come  no 
more  to  my  house,  you  bet.  D'ye  understan'  ?  " 

Elizabeth  made  no  answer.  She  sat  gripping  the 
iron  rail  of  the  wagon-seat  with  both  hands,  as  if  to 
restrain  herself  from  some  desperate  act.  Her  feverish 
eyes  searched  the  tangled  growths  by  the  roadside. 

"  I'm  a-goin'  to  make  a  thorough  job  of  it  while  I'm 
about  it,"  announced  her  husband,  after  a  frowning 
silence.  "I'm  sick  to  death  of  the  hull  thing!  First 
off  we'll  hev  to  stop  to  Ben  Harney's  while  I  git  the 
mare  shod.  You'd  better  go  in  an'  set  with  Mis'  Har- 
ney  a  spell.  Mebbe  Ben'll  know  whar  the  brat  is;  he 
mos'  gen'ally  knows  everybody's  biz  from  A  to  izzard." 

Mrs.  Harney  received  her  visitor  with  effusion. 
"  Land,  Mis'  Winch,  I'm  awful  pleased  to  see  you,"  she 
gurgled.  "I  declare  I  was  thinkin'  'bout  you  most  all 
yiste'day  aft'noon!  Do  come  in,  won't  you,  an'  set 
down  in  the  settin'-room.  I  hear  you've  lost  yer 
'dopted  boy;  at  the  fun'ral,  wa'n'tit?  My!  what  d' 


'LIZ'BETH  in 

you  s'pose  ever  become  of  him  ?  1  wouldn't  be  s'prised 
if  they  didn't  any  of  us  ever  know.  As  I  says  to  Ben; 
it  reminds  me,  I  says,  of  the  time  a  boy  was  lost  when 
I  was  livin'  to  Sidney  Plains.  He  was  jest  'bout  as  big 
as  that  boy  of  yourn,  an'  he  wa'n't  found  till — my!  I 
guess  'twas  as  much's  five  years  afterwards;  then 
they  jest  got  his  skel'ton.  He'd  fell  down  a  blin'  well. 
Blin'  wells  is  awful  dangerous.  His  folks  hadareg'lar 
fun'ral  jest  the  same,  an'  set  up  a  tombstone.  Seem's 
so  it  wa'n't  hardly  worth  while,  don't  it?" 

The  good  woman  paused  for  breath,  and  com 
placently  wiped  her  forehead  with  her  checkered  apron. 
"It's  a  pity  you  didn't  give  him  to  me,  Mis'  Winch; 
I'd  ha'  looked  after  him,  an'  seen 'at  he  didn't  git  starved 
ner  'bused  by  anybody.  I'm  awful  fond  of  childern; 
I  never  could  take  it  so  ca'm  as  you  do.  I'm  so  awful 
tender-hearted.  I  says  to  Ben;  if  'twas  me,  I  says,  I'd 
ha'  had  the  constable  out,  an'  ev'rybody  else  'at  could 
walk  on  two  legs  a-lookin'  fur  him.  Where  was  you 
calc'latin'  to  go  to-day  ?" 

Elizabeth  forced  her  dry  lips  to  form  an  answer. 
"Goin'to  look  fur  him!"  echoed  Mrs.  Harney  with 
round  eyes.  "Why,  land  o'  love!  you  don't  mean  to 
tell  me  you  ain't  been  out  before  ?  I  knew  I  hadn't 
seen  yer  team  passin',  an'  Ben  said  he  hadn't  neither. 
I  don't  b'lieve  there's  much  use  in  goin'  now;  them 
blin'  wells  is  — 

Elizabeth  pushed  past  the  massive  front  of  her 
hostess  without  a  word.  "Why,  what's  your  hurry, 
Mis'  Winch,"  cried  that  excellent  lady.  "You  might 
jest  as  well  set  an'  rest  awhile  longer.  Ben  ain't  done 
with  the  horse  yit,  I  see  —  Land  o'  love !  "  she  ejacu 
lated,  as  she  watched  the  thin  figure  climb  to  the  wagon 


ii2  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

seat  with  painful  haste.  "If  she  don't  act  onreason- 
able!  I  was  a-goin'  to  give  her  a  piece  of  that  apple- 
custard  pie!  " 

Erastus  Winch  conducted  his  search  for  the  lost  child 
with  his  accustomed  energy  and  thoroughness.  He 
stopped  every  team  on  the  road,  and  drew  up  at  every 
farm-gate  with  the  stereotyped  inquiry:  "You  ain't 
seen  anythin'  of  a  stray  boy  'round  here,  hev  you? 
'Bout  six  years  oP,  big  of  his  age,  black  hair  an'  eyes." 

"His  hair's  brown,  'Rastus — kind  of  red-brown," 
whispered  Elizabeth  timidly,  on  one  occasion. 

"  Shet  up,  will  ye!  "  snapped  the  man,  as  he  started 
up  his  horses  with  a  stinging  cut.  "I'm  runnin'  this 
shebang!  "  He  had  grown  increasingly  morose  as  the 
day  wore  and  his  tardy  investigations  promised  to  end 
in  failure.  "  Ef  it  wa'n't  fur  your  blamed  foolishness," 
he  burst  out,  "  we  c'd  quit  an'  go  hum.  I've  an  awful 
good  min'  to  turn  smack  'round  this  minute!  He's  run 
away;  'tain't  our  fault.  I  don't  see  why  you  can't  let 
him  stay  where  he  is!  " 

They  had  struck  into  the  back  hill-road  to  Turner's 
Crossroads  an  hour  since,  and  the  miles  were  lengthen 
ing  slowly  behind  the  jolting  wagon;  the  noon  sun 
beat  fiercely  on  the  sweating,  toiling  horses.  Winch 
cast  a  look  of  veiled  anxiety  at  the  gray  face  beside 
him.  "Say,  ain't  you  had  'bout  'nough  of  this, 
'Liz'beth  ?"  he  demanded  roughly.  "You  kin  bet  I 
have,  an'  I  don't  know  where  we're  goin'  to  git  a  bite 
to  eat! " 

The  woman  burst  into  a  smothered  scream.  "  Let 
me  out!  Oh,  'Rastus,  let  me  out — I  see  somethin'!" 
An  instant  later  she  was  sobbing  over  a  little,  sodden 
hat  of  straw,  bound  with  a  piteous  blue  ribbon  faded 


'LIZ'BETH  113 

and  discolored.     "It's   his  hat,  'Rastus — his  Sunday 
hat!     Oh, 'Manuel — 'Manuel!" 

"Why,  consarn  it  all,  woman!  don't  stop  to  take 
on!"  cried  Winch  excitedly.  "We're  on  the  right 
track  now!  He  can't  be  fur  off !  Come  on,  I  say !" 

"He's  in  the  woods  yonder,"  faltered  Elizabeth, 
hugging  the  hat  to  her  breast.  "  I'm  awful  'fraid  he's 
in  the  woods.  I  want  to  look  fur  him  there." 

"Come,  dry  up  now  and  git  in  the  wagon!  He'd 
foller  the  road  like  a  calf.  Si'  Scott's  place  is  jest  'round 
the  bend;  I'm  goin'  to  inquire  there." 

A  stout  woman,  mounted  on  a  ladder,  was  picking 
berries  in  the  deep,  shaded  door-yard  of  the  next  farm 
house;  a  blond  child  played  with  a  kitten  near  the  gate. 
"Seen  a  stray  boy  'round  here,  sis;  black  eyes  an'  a 
little  bigger  'n  you  be?"  began  Winch. 

The  child  pushed  the  yellow  hair  out  of  her  eyes. 
"  He  runned  away,"  she  said  pouting.  "I  cried." 

Elizabeth  was  on  the  ground  in  an  instant;  she 
caught  the  child  by  the  arm.  "  Was  he  here — when  ? 
Tell  me  quick! " 

A  stout,  sunbonneted  figure  moved  slowly  toward 
them  across  the  grass.  "A  little  boy?"  she  echoed, 
in  response  to  Elizabeth's  reiterated  question.  "Why, 
yes,  there  was  a  little  boy — 'bout  two  weeks  ago, 
wa'n't  it,  Hildy  ?  But  come  in,  won't  you,  an'  see 
mother;  mother,  she'll  know." 

"You'll  set  right  down  an'  hev  dinner  with  us,"  de 
clared  Mrs.  Scott  hospitably;  "I  declare  I've  felt 
worried  'bout  that  child  ever  sence  he  was  here.  He 
slipped  out  jest  like  a  shadder  whilst  me  an'  Em'line  was 
busy  with  this  naughty  girl  here.  I  says  to  father  that 
night,  'you'd  ought  to  hitch  an'  look  for  him,'  I  says. 


114  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

But  he  would  have  it  that  his  folks  wa'n't  far  away. 
So  after  a  spell  it  kind  of  slipped  my  mind.  An'  so 
you  found  his  hat!  Well,  well!  I  took  notice  'at 
he  didn't  have  no  hat  on,  nor  shoes  an'  stockin's 
neither." 

"He  had  'em  on  when  he  started,"  said  Elizabeth, 
into  whose  ashen  face  a  trace  of  color  had  crept. 
"  But  he  liked  to  go  barefoot,  'Manuel  did." 

"  He  prob'ly  took  'em  off,"  chirruped  the  old  lady 
cheerfully.  "  I  wouldn't  worry  a  mite  'bout  him  ef  I 
was  you." 

"Wouldn't  you  if  it  was  her?"  asked  Elizabeth, 
pointing  to  Hilda,  who  sat  nursing  her  kitten  on  the 
doorstep. 

"  Land!  I  s'pose  1  would  if  'twas  Hildy,"  admitted 
Mrs.  Scott.  "She's  sech  a  little  fidget.  She's  been 
with  us  sence  her  ma  died,"  she  continued,  lowering 
her  voice  confidentially.  "  Her  pa's  my  oldest  son  by 
my  first  husban'.  He  sets  great  store  by  Hildy.  I  tell 
him  he'll  spile  her  ef  he  don't  look  out." 

Elizabeth  had  risen  and  was  standing  rigidly  erect. 
"  I  guess  we'd  better  be  goin',"  she  said. 

"Why,  Mis' Winch,  you  don't  mean  it.  They've 
jest  took  the  horses  out,  an'  dinner'll  be  on  the  table  in 
no  time." 

"I  guess  I'll  be  goin'  anyhow,"  repeated  Elizabeth 
doggedly.  " 'Rastus  kin  stay  to  dinner;  I'll  go  on.  I 
— I  couldn't  eat  nohow  till  I  fin'  out.  Mebbe  he's  at 
the  next  house;  an'  mebbe — he's  lost."  The  last 
words  were  spoken  over  her  shoulder  with  a  piteous 
smile.  She  was  already  half-way  to  the  road. 
"  You'll  tell  'Rastus  'at  I'm  goin',"  she  said,  as  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  the  gate.  "  I  couldn't  wait  nohow." 


'LIZ'BETH  115 

She  walked  stiffly  without  turning  her  head  till  a 
group  of  giant  hickories  hid  the  house,  with  the  dis 
mayed  face  of  her  hostess  in  the  open  door;  then  she 
gathered  up  her  scant  skirts  in  both  hands  and  broke 
into  an  awkward  run. 

It  was  an  unpainted  house,  stained  with  weather, 
quiet  and  sad  in  the  afternoon  sunshine  in  the  midst  of 
its  unpruned  lilacs  and  syringas.  Elizabeth  stopped 
short  in  the  narrow  road  fringed  with  the  dusty  white 
and  gold  of  mayweed.  Her  breath  came  in  great 
gasps;  her  bonnet  hung  grotesquely  about  her  neck; 
wisps  of  gray  hair  straggled  across  her  face.  Presently 
she  crept  nearer.  "If  he  was  to  see  me  this  way  it 
'ud  scare  him,"  she  muttered,  and  lifted  tremulous 
hands  in  a  feeble  attempt  at  readjustment. 

No  one  answered  her  timid  rap  at  the  front  door. 
"  I  guess  mebbe  she'd  be  washin'  up  the  dinner  dishes 
'round  back,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  stepped  un 
certainly  onto  the  narrow,  worn  path.  "  They's  folks 
been  livin'  here  anyhow,"  she  assured  herself;  "I  kin 
see  a  milk  pail;  an'  there's  bees."  Repeated  knock- 
ings  brought  no  response.  An  uncurtained  window 
next  tempted  the  anxious  eyes. 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  Erastus  Winch  drew  up 
with  a  loud  "Whoa,  thar!"  to  his  tired  horses,  he 
heard  the  sound  of  loud  sobbing  mingled  with  frantic 
knocking  on  a  closed  door. 

"'Liz'beth!  I  say,  'Liz'beth!"  he  shouted.  "What 
in  all  possess'  is  the  matter  with  ye  ?  They  ain't  no 
body  livin'  here  now;  I  hurried  arter  ye  to  tell  ye 
soon's  I'd  et  my  dinner!"  He  caught  the  frenzied 
figure  by  the  shoulder.  "Say,  'Liz'beth,  listen  to  me, 
will  ye!  Si'  Scott  tol'  me.  An  ol'  man  named  Mose 


ii6  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Armitage  used  to  live  here;  but  he  sol'  out  his  stock  to 
Si'  las'  week  an'  went  off." 

"Look,  'Rastus!  look  in  there!"  moaned  Elizabeth; 
"it's  his  little  shirt  a-hangin'  on  a  cheer;  don't  you  see 
it?" 

"Sho!  I  don't  see  no  shirt.  Listen  to  reason,  can't 
ye  ?  The  ol'  feller  has  lived  here  sole  alone  fur  the  las' 
twenty  years;  I  guess  Si's  folks  'ud  know.  Come 
now,  we've  got  to  git  hum;  it's  nigh  onto  milkin' 
time,  an'  we  a  good  ten  mile  f  om  the  cows.  We'll 
try  it  agin  some  day,  mebbe." 

Elizabeth  clung  obstinately  to  the  latch.  "I  ain't 
a-goin'l"  she  wailed.  "I'm  goin'  to  stay  here  till  he 
gits  back.  I  want  'Manuel!  " 

Winch  swore  under  his  breath;  then  almost  tenderly 
he  lifted  the  frail  figure  in  his  arms  and  deposited  it 
on  the  wagon-seat.  "  You're  a-goin'  hum,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XII 
The  Lawyer's  Story 

MR.  CALEB  SMALLEY,  of  the  law  firm  of  Trent 
&  Smalley,  looked  up  from  the  document  which 
he  was  inspecting  with  a  deepening  of  his  habitual 
frown.  "  I  believe,  1  said  to  you,  Short,  that  I  wished 
to  be  left  uninterrupted  to-day  during  the  morning 
hours,"  he  said,  tightening  his  lips  into  a  thousand 
austere  puckers. 

"Yes,  sir,  1  had  not  forgotten,  sir,"  said  the  clerk, 
with  anxious  humility.  "But  Mr.  Hicks,  sir,  thought 

you  would  wish  to  see "  He  finished  his  sentence 

neatly  by  laying  a  visiting-card  on  the  desk  before  his 
employer. 

Mr.  Smalley  glanced  at  the  card.  Then  he  arose  and 
straightened  his  spare  figure.  "  Mr.  Hicks  was — all- 
right,"  he  said  tentatively.  "  You  may  show  the  gen 
tleman  in  at  once." 

The  lawyer  advanced  to  meet  his  visitor  with  inter 
est,  which  deepened  into  an  unpleasant  feeling  of  sur 
prise  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  huge,  picturesque 
figure,  clad  in  rusty  black,  whose  presence  seemed  to 
fill  the  small  room  to  overflowing.  "Mr.  Moses 
Armitage,  1  believe,"  he  said  sharply,  referring  with 
automatic  precision  to  the  visiting-card.  "  I  have  not 
before  had  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  sir  ; 
though  my  father — now  retired — will  remember  you." 

117 


ii8  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Moses  Armitage  sat  down,  looking  ruddier  and 
more  imposing  than  his  wont  by  virtue  of  contrast 
with  the  gray  tints  of  his  surroundings,  which  included 
the  meagre  figure  of  the  solicitor.  He  made  no  haste 
to  speak,  but  sat  looking  about  with  a  troubled  ex 
pression  in  his  clear,  blue  eyes. 

Mr.  Smalley  frowned  judicially,  and  accosted  his 
visitor  a  second  time,  with  a  touch  of  incisive  keen 
ness  in  his  smooth  tones.  "We  have  not  had  an  op 
portunity  of  informing  you  of  the  exact  circumstances 
connected  with  your  brother's  death,"  he  said.  "We 
had  hoped  that  your  interest  in  the  estate  as  possible — 
indeed,  1  may  say  as  probable — heir  might  lead  you  to 
communicate  with  us  promptly." 

"I  have  no  interest  in  the  estate,"  said  Moses  Armi 
tage,  with  deliberation.  "I  am  not  here  as  an  heir, 
either  possible  or  probable.  1  will  not  inherit  my 
father's  money  under  any  circumstances." 

Mr.  Smalley  fell  to  studying  his  visitor  with  his 
head  very  much  on  one  side  and  eyes  half  closed. 
"That's  a  very  singular  notion  of  yours,  Mr.  Armi 
tage,"  he  observed  at  length,  with  some  amusement 
evident  in  his  voice;  "in  view  of  the  fact  that  the 
property  is  an  exceedingly  handsome  one.  How 
ever " 

"  I  came,"  said  the  other,  fixing  his  eyes  with  much 
earnestness  upon  the  lawyer,  "to  find  out  if  I  have 
any  kith  or  kin  left  alive." 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Smalley,  expanding  his  narrow 
chest,  "is  exactly  what  we  cannot  tell  you.  It  is,  in 
short,  the  point  in  question.  You,  I  take  it,  have  had 
very  little  communication  with  your  family  for  some 
years." 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY  119 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  from  them  for  more  than 
forty  years." 

"Ah,  I  thought  as  much,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Smalley, 
with  apparent  satisfaction.  "What,  may  I  ask,  was 
the  last  word  you  had  from  your  father  ?  " 

Moses  Armitage  started  forward  in  his  chair;  his 
eyes  blazed.  "  I  had  the  last  word  from  my  father  in 
this  very  room,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  choked  voice.  "  I 
was  a  boy  of  scarce  twenty;  I  loved  my  father  and  my 
brother.  They  were  all  I  had  in  the  world.  Your 
father  sat  where  you  are  sitting  now.  He  handed  me 
an  envelope;  it  contained  a  check — the  half  of  my 
mother's  money,  and  a  letter — but,  no,  I  will  not  tell 
you  the  words  of  that  letter;  they  are  best  buried  with 
the  dead.  Tell  me  what  you  know  about  the  family, 
and  be  quick  about  it;  the  air  of  this  place  stifles  me  1" 
He  leaned  back  and  wiped  the  moisture  from  his  fore 
head  with  a  trembling  hand. 

Mr.  Smalley  regarded  him  attentively.  "Thank 
you,"  he  said  civilly;  "some  identification  was  neces 
sary,  you  know."  He  then  proceeded  to  adjust  the 
finger-tips  of  one  hand  against  those  of  the  other  with 
the  extremest  nicety  and  precision,  eying  them  with 
an  attentive  frown,  as  if  they  were  so  many  legal  in 
struments — which,  indeed,  they  were. 

"When  your  esteemed  father  deceased,  some  fifteen 
years  ago,"  he  began,  punctuating  his  clauses  with  a 
silent  opening  and  closing  of  his  two  forefingers,  "  he 
left  the  property  unreservedly  to  his  second  son,  Jonas, 
and  his  heirs.  Mr.  Jonas  Armitage  was  at  that  time 
the  head  of  quite  a  flourishing  family;  to  be  exact, 
there  was  a  young  wife,  two  sons  and  a  daughter.  It 
is  with  the  subsequent  history  of  this  daughter  that  we 


120  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

must  now  concern  ourselves,  since  death  early  removed 
the  sons.  Miss  Armitage,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  be 
came  entangled  in  a  love  affair  with  a  young  man  of 
neither  means  nor  position.  He  was,  in  short,  a  clerk 
connected  with  the  correspondence  department  of  the 
concern.  Mr.  Armitage  forbade  his  daughter  to  com 
municate  with  this  person,  whose  name  I  will  now 
mention,  since  it  has  become  unfortunately  linked 
with  the  Armitage  estate.  His  name  was  Immanuel 
Rossi." 

Moses  Armitage  leaned  forward  in  his  chair.  "Im 
manuel  Rossi,"  he  repeated.  "And  they  were  mar 
ried?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  tell  you  that  Miss  Mar 
garet  Armitage,  with  the  sad  perversity  of  her  age  and 
sex,  married  this — ah — person,"  acquiesced  the  lawyer, 
raising  his  eyebrows  and  pursing  up  his  lips.  "  In 
view  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Armitage  had  expressly  for 
bidden  further  communication  between  the  two,  you 
will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  he  sent  word — 
through  ourselves — to  Mrs.  Rossi,  on  the  morning  of 
her  marriage,  to  the  effect  that  he  considered  the  rela 
tions  which  had  previously  existed  between  them  as 
completely  nullified  by  the  act.  In  a  word,  he  disin 
herited  the  young  woman." 

"Cruel!" 

"Ah,  it  may  possibly  seem  so  to  you.  For  myself 
I  hold  that  obedience  is  the  foundation  of  law.  Dis 
obedience  merits  punishment — or  as  Holy  Writ  puts  it 
still  more  forcibly — '  the  wages  of  sin  is  death.'  "  Mr. 
Smalley  seemed  so  excessively  pleased  by  his  line  of 
thought,  that  at  this  juncture  he  readjusted  his  finger 
tips  one  by  one  with  smiling  deliberation.  "  My  story 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY  121 

from  this  point  is  a  perfectly  logical  illustration  of  the 
fact,"  he  went  on.  "  The  foolish  young  people  disap 
peared  forthwith,  young  Rossi  having  received  his 
discharge  with  a  month's  wages — the  late  Mr.  Armi- 
tage  was  a  just  man,  if  somewhat  rigid  and  unbend 
ing.  A  month's  wages,  I  believe,  I  said;  well,  from 
that  day  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Rossi  was  never  again 
seen  by  any  of  her  former  acquaintances.  She  had 
made  her  bed,  as  the  old  saying  has  it,  and  presumably 
she  died  upon  it.  It  is  known  that  she  endeavored,  at 
least  on  one  occasion,  to  effect  a  reconciliation  with 
her  father.  This  deduction  is  derived  from  a  com 
munication  bearing  her  signature,  which  we  found 
among  other  papers  of  my  late  esteemed  client. 

"But  before  I  proceed  further,  let  me  explain  what 
has  no  doubt  been  a  matter  of  some  surprise  to  you — 
I  refer  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Armitage  left  no  will. 
Quite  naturally  he  had  destroyed  the  original  instru 
ment  which  conveyed  all  the  property  to  his  daughter. 
Having  done  this  he  found  himself  somewhat  at  a 
loss;  by  the  terms  of  his  father's  will  he  was  precluded 
from  giving  play  to  his — ah — very  natural  inclinations, 
which  might  have  prompted  him  in  favor  of  the  next 
heir  in  succession.  I  refer  to  yourself,  sir;  I  trust  you 
will  pardon  the  reference  to  the  rather  unpleasant  re 
lations  which  existed  at  the  time  mentioned." 

"There  was  a  letter,  you  said,"  interrupted  the  other 
with  some  impatience.  "  Let  me  see  the  letter." 

"All  in  good  time,  my  dear  sir;  I  am,  in  fact, 
coming  to  that  directly.  I  was  about  to  say  that  in 
justice  to  the  very  admirable  qualities  of  my  late  client 
I  ought  to  inform  you  that  just  previous  to  his  un- 
looked  for  demise  he  actually  did  make  a  will,  in 


122  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

which  he  bequeathed  his  entire  fortune,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  some  minor  bequests,  to  be  divided  among 
the  foreign  missionary  societies  of  three  different  de 
nominations.  The  wording  of  this  instrument  was  so 
singular  that  I  had  several  conferences  with  my  late 
client  regarding  it.  I  must  add  that  the  delay  incident 
to  my  efforts  to  modify  the  somewhat  unpleasant 
terms  in  which  a  munificent  gift  was  conveyed  to  a 
most  worthy  cause  undoubtedly  led  to  the  present 
difficulty;  the  will  was  never  signed.  1  see  that  you 
feel  some  natural  curiosity,  which  I  will  gratify  before 
we  dismiss  the  subject.  The  wording  of  a  certain 
portion  of  the  instrument,  in  no  way  necessary  to  its 
legal  status — and  even,  as  I  pointed  out  to  my  es 
teemed  client,  calculated  to  invalidate  the  will  as  indi 
cating  an  unsound  mind,  should  the  instrument  be 
contested  by  either  of  the  disinherited  heirs,  was  as 
follows:  'The  Methodists  teach  the  heathen  free 
grace,  and  sprinkle  them;  the  Presbyterians  teach 
election,  and  sprinkle  them;  the  Baptists  teach  a  mix 
ture  of  both,  and  immerse  them.  Blind  leaders  of  the 
blind;  take  my  money  and  play  the  farce  to  the  end.' 
You  will,  I  am  sure,  agree  that  I  was  quite  right  in  my 
policy  of  delay  in  the  matter,  tho  the  course  of  sub 
sequent  events  led  to  the  present  dilemma." 

A  gleam  of  laughter  shone  from  the  face  of  the 
listener.  "  I  perceive  that  Jonas  was  of  near  kin  to 
me,  after  all,"  he  murmured;  "  'tis  a  pity  the  will  was 
not  signed." 

Mr.  Smalley  arose  and  tiptoed  across  the  room. 
"The  communication,  to  which  I  have  referred,  bear 
ing  the  signature  of  Margaret  Armitage  Rossi,  is  of 
very  little  value,"  he  said,  fixing  his  singular  client 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY  123 

with  eyes  of  frosty  disapproval;  "except  as  it  indi 
cates  a  possible  survival  of  the  line  of  descent." 

It  was  a  short  letter,  written  feebly,  and  blurred  as 
if  with  the  tears  of  the  writer.  It  told  in  a  few  short 
pathetic  sentences  of  the  death  of  the  young  husband 
and  of  the  dire  need  of  the  desolate  wife.  "  I  shall 
soon  become  a  mother,"  ran  the  piteous  appeal;  "I 
have  no  money.  Let  me  come  home,  dear  father. 
For  the  love  of  my  mother,  do  not  close  your  heart 
against  me  ! " 

Moses  Armitage's  keen  eyes  were  blurred  as  he  lifted 
them  to  the  face  of  the  lawyer.  "Well?"  he  said 
briefly. 

"We  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the  communi 
cation  was  answered,"  said  Mr.  Smalley,  regarding  his 
finger-tips  with  narrowed  lids.  "My  late  client  was 
not  an  emotional  man." 

"But  why  not  search  for  her  in  the  place  from 
which  this  was  written  ? "  cried  Moses  Armitage, 
starting  to  his  feet.  "I  will  go  at  once." 

"The  letter  is  dated  some  seven  years  back,  you 
will  observe,"  said  the  lawyer,  dryly.  "I  beg  to  in 
form  you  further,  that  upon  the  discovery  of  this  piece 
of  evidence  we  at  once  dispatched  a  trustworthy  agent 
to  the  address  mentioned.  You  may  interview  this 
person  now." 

In  response  to  his  summons,  a  lean,  stoop- 
shouldered  man,  with  a  totally  expressionless  face, 
entered  the  room.  "Hicks,"  said  Mr.  Smalley, 
sharply,  "you  may  tell  this  gentleman  of  your  visit 
to  B— ." 

"I  found  the  tenement  where  the  woman,  known 
as  Mrs.  Rossi,  had  stopped,"  said  Hicks,  without  pre- 


124  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

amble,  and  in  a  voice  that  matched  his  face.  "I 
learned  there,  from  a  woman  known  as  Bridget  Kelly, 
that  Mrs.  Rossi,  with  a  man  said  to  be  her  husband, 
had  lived  in  the  house  for  three  months.  During  that 
time  the  man,  known  as  Immanuel  Rossi,  died  and 
was  buried.  Mrs.  Rossi,  after  exhausting  the  means 
at  her  command,  left  the  house." 

"Is  that  all?"  cried  Moses  Armitage.  "Why  did 
you  not  make  further  inquiries  ?" 

"I  did,"  said  the  man,  immovably. 

"Well?" 

"  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  learned." 

"  You  are  now  in  possession  of  the  facts,  Mr.  Armi 
tage,"  said  the  lawyer,  dismissing  the  witness  with  a 
practiced  wave  of  the  hand.  "I  have  only  to  add 
that  we  advertised  in  all  the  leading  newspapers  for 
the  woman  or  proof  of  her  death,  with  no  result.  I 
will  also  state  that  it  was  by  the  merest  accident  that 
we  learned  your  own  address;  we  wrote  you,  but  re 
ceived  no  reply,  and  had  almost  given  up  hearing 
from  you,  so  long  a  time  had  elapsed  since  notifying 
you  of  the  event." 

"1  forgot  to  read  the  letter,"  said  Moses  Armitage, 
in  a  matter-of-fact  tone.  "There  were  other  mat 
ters "  He  stopped  short  and  turned  toward  the 

door.  "I  shall  search  for  her,"  he  said  strongly. 

"Very  good,"  acquiesced  Mr.  Smalley.  "Very 
proper  indeed.  Of  course,  we  hope  that  Mrs.  Rossi's 
whereabouts  may  speedily  be  discovered,  or  some 
clear  evidence  of  her  death  if  she  is  dead.  If  there  is 
anything  we  can  do  to  assist  you  in  the  search,  you 
will,  of  course,  call  upon  us.  An  advance  of  some 
hundreds — say — would  be " 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY  125 

"I  have  not  asked  for  money,  sir,"  said  the  other, 
with  unnecessary  warmth,  and  shut  the  door  behind 
him  with  no  gentle  hand. 

The  boy  Immanuel  was  waiting  in  the  lawyer's 
outer  office,  his  short  legs  dangling  uncomfortably 
from  the  high  stool  to  which  one  of  the  clerks  had 
lifted  him.  He  greeted  Mr.  Armitage  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  a  joyous  sigh  of  relief. 

"Are  you  tired,  my  child?"  asked  the  old  man, 
tenderly;  "I  was  a  long  time  in  there — yes,  along, 
weary  time — and  what  a  story! "  He  was  speaking  to 
himself  now,  unconsciously  quickening  his  steps  till 
the  child  at  his  side  was  forced  into  a  run  to  keep  up 
with  the  irregular  strides. 

"Where  are  we  going  now,  my  father?"  said  the 
boy  breathlessly,  looking  up  into  the  ruddy  face, 
where  pain  and  anger  struggled  for  the  mastery. 

Moses  Armitage  looked  down  at  the  questioner,  and 
his  eyes  brightened.  "Why  here  I  am  running  your 
little  legs  off,  boy !  Why  didn't  you  pull  me  up,  as  I  do 
Nelly,  when  she  has  eaten  too  many  oats  ?  I'll  tell  you 
where  we  are  going;  we  are  going  on  a  boat  for  a  fine 
ride,  but  first  we  shall  see  what  they  can  give  us  to  eat 
in  this  pretty  shop.  I  see  some  cakes  in  the  window, 
which  look  as  if  they  were  made  for  a  boy  like  you." 

An  hour  later  they  were  climbing  a  rickety  staircase, 
whereon  endless  processions  of  slatternly  women, 
ragged  children,  and  slouching  men  passed  up  and 
down.  Loud,  discordant  voices  filled  the  intervals 
between  slamming  doors.  A  vague,  sickening  odor, 
lowered  in  the  half  darkness  like  a  cloud. 

"This  isn't  a  nice  house,"  said  Immanuel.  "Why 
do  we  come  here  ?  " 


126  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Moses  Armitage  regarded  him  with  thoughtful  eyes. 
"There  are  children  who  stay  here  all  the  time,"  he 
said;  "but  you  and  I  will  go  away  very  soon." 

It  was  Mrs.  Bridget  Kelly,  her  that  had  stopped 
nine  years  on  the  top  floor,  that  could  tell  the  gentle 
man  what  he  wished  to  know  if  any  one  could,  so 
said  a  big  woman  with  half  a  dozen  children  clinging 
to  her  ragged  skirts.  And  up  five  flights  of  the  dirty 
stairs,  through  dark,  ill-smelling  passages,  they  went, 
escorted  by  an  ever-increasing  swarm  of  pallid,  eager- 
eyed  children. 

"It's  the  second  door  to  yer  right,  sir;  the  wan  wid 
th'  hole  in  it,"  volunteered  a  small  girl,  who  carried  a 
big  baby.  "Twas  Mike  Kelly  wot  kicked  it  through 
whin  he  wor  drunk  las'  week." 

"An'  ye  c'n  shet  yer  dirty  mouth,  Kitty  McGuire," 
cried  a  shrill  voice  from  the  door  in  question.  "What 
yer  doin'  on  me  landin',  the  lave  av  yez  ?  Git  out  or 
I'll  tak'  me  poker  to  yez!  "  The  speaker  turned  to  her 
visitors  with  a  broad  smile  of  welcome.  "Ye  c'n 
walk  in,  sur,"  she  said,  apologetically;  "  they  ain't  no 
manners — the  kids  in  this  house." 

When  Moses  Armitage  had  made  known  his  errand, 
Mrs.  Kelly  heaved  a  reminiscent  sigh.  "Oh,  yis,"  she 
said,  "  I  mind  it  all  as  if  it  was  yiste'day.  She  an'  her 
man — a  mere  shlip  av  a  boy  he  was,  an'  sick-lookin', 
thin;  she  come  to  me  an'  she  sez,  'We  hav'n't  any 
furnitur','  she  sez,  'an'  on'y  a  little  money.'  She 
showed  me  what  she  had,  poor  dear,  '  An'  cud  we 
board  wid  you,' she  sez,  'till  I  gits  a  letter  I'm  ex- 
pectin'  ? ' 

"  I  had  tuk  boarders  off  an'  on,  fur  I've  always  lived 
respictable,  an'  in  thim  days  I  had  three  rooms.  So  I 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY  127 

tuk  thim.  Her  man  cudn't  git  no  work,  try  as  he 
wud;  an'  after  awhile  she  towld  me  as  how  they  wud 
git  their  own  victuals.  But  sorra  a  bit  she  iver  cooked, 
though  1  offered  her  the  lave  av  me  stove." 

Mrs.  Kelly  paused  to  wipe  her  eyes  on  her  apron. 
"  I  towld  this  same  to  a  bit  av  a  spalpeen  as  was  here 
t'ree  weeks  gone,"  she  said.  "An'  fur  what  do  they 
want  the  poor  thing?  'She  was  a  lady,  if  iver  I  see 
wan;  an'  sure  an'  I  ought  to  know,  for  before  me 
marriage  to  Mike  Kelly  I  lived  out  wid  many  a  lady." 

"I  am  Mrs.  Rossi's  uncle,"  said  Moses  Armitage. 

"Oh — her  uncle?  Lord,  save  us!  thin  you'll  hap 
pen  be  the  wan  she  wint  to  see  afther  her  man  died! 
He  war  tuk  suddint  wid  fever  an'  on'y  lived  five  days. 
Poor  young  thing — an'  she  that  delicate  herself.  We 
all  done  what  we  cud  to  help  her,  an'  he  was  buried 
by  the  city;  it  cudn't  be  helped.  The  day  av  the 
fun'ral  I  sez  to  her,  '  What  you  goin'  to  do  whin  your 
own  time  comes,  Mis'  Rossi  ?  '  I  sez.  She  hadn't  paid 
me  no  money  for  the  room  in  tin  days,  but  I  wudn't 
bring  it  up  to  her  thin.  'I  don'  know,'  she  sez,  an' 
wrung  her  bits  av  white  han's.  '  If  my  letter  wud 
on'y  come! '  she  sez.  'Why  don't  I  git  my  letter  ?' 

"  '  Well,'  I  sez,  '  Billy  'ud  give  it  to  ye  in  a  minute  if 
they  was  wan,'  I  sez.  Billy  McGuire,  he  was  the  pos'- 
man,  an'  an  ilegant,  respictable  man;  I've  knowed  his 
wife  these  tin  years.  '  If  they  was  wan/  I  sez,  '  Billy 
'ud  surely  give  it  to  yez,  an'  so  I  guess  there  ain't 
none.' 

"That  same  day  she  slipped  out,  an'  whin  she 
comes  in  she  had  some  money  in  her  han'.  I  tuk  no 
tice  'at  her  weddin'  ring  was  gone.  '  I'll  pay  you  for 
the  room  now,' she  sez,  'thin  I'm  goin'.'  The  nex' 


128  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

mornin'  whin  I  got  up  she  was  gone,  an'  that  was  the 
las'  I  seen  av  her." 

"  Did  you  ask  her  where  she  was  going,  when  she 
spoke  of  leaving  the  day  before  ?  "  asked  Moses  Armi- 
tage,  anxiously. 

"I  did  that!"  said  .Mrs.  Kelly,  nodding  her  head 
emphatically,  "but  it. wasn't, me  'at  'ud  let  on  to  the 
man  that  was  here  before,  for,  to  tell  you  the  straight 
truth,  I  didn't  like  the  luk  av  him.  But  you  bein'  her 
uncle  is  different.  I  sez  to  her,  '  Where  you  goin',  Mis' 
Rossi,  dear,'  I  sez.  For  as  sure  as  I  set  in  this  chair  I 
was  that  sorry  for  the  woman  I  meant  to  keep  her  till 
after  her  trouble.  '  Don't  go,'  I  sez,  '  till  you're  better.' 
' I'm  goin'  to  me  uncle,'  she  sez;  'I  know  he'll  tak'  me 
in.  I  know  where  he  lives,  too,  for  I  heard  father  say.' 
'In  that  case/  I  sez,  'you're  a-doin'  sinsible.'  I  was 
manin'  to  ask  her  more  perticlar  before  she  wint;  but 
as  I  tol'  yez,  she  was  gone  come  mornin'.  I've  never 
forgot  the  poor  thing." 

The  woman's  eyes  had  wandered  often  during  this 
recital  to  the  face  of  the  child,  who  leaned  shyly 
against  the  great  shoulder  of  his  guardian.  "I  sup 
pose,"  she  continued,  again  wiping  her  eyes,  "  that  this 
is  her  babby;  six — ain't  he?  An'  a  fine,  big  boy  av 
his  age!  I'd  ha'  knowed  it  widout  your  tellin',  for  he's 
the  livin'  image  av  her.  I  seen  it  whin  I  first  laid  eyes 
on  him!  What's  your  name,  little  feller  ?" 

"My  name's  "Manuel,"  answered  the  child,  shyly. 

"  Av  course  it  is,  afther  his  pa!  Many's  the  time  I 
heard  her  callin'  him  that  same!  " 

"But,  my  good  woman,"  said  Moses  Armitage,  "I 
never  saw  my  niece.  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  the 
uncle  she  referred  to.  She  did  not  come  to  me." 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY  129 

"She  never  come  to  you?"  echoed  the  woman 
shrilly.  "The  saints  defmd  an'  guard  us!  an'  ain't 
this  her  babby  thin  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Moses  Armitage.  Then  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  so  suddenly  as  to  upset  the  rickety  chair  upon 
which  he  had  been  sitting.  A  strange  thought  had 
flashed  across  his  brain.  He  thrust  a  piece  of  money  into 
the  woman's  hand.  "  I  shall  not  forget  your  kindness 
to  her,"  he  said.  Seizing  the  child  in  his  arms  he  made 
his  way  down  the  unsteady  staircases  in  a  fashion 
which  called  alarmed  faces  to  doors  and  windows. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
In  the  Valley 

IT  had  rained  in  the  valley  for  more  than  a  week. 
The  heavy  midsummer  vegetation  drooped  earth 
ward,  rank  and  dark.  Grain  mildewed  in  the  sodden 
fields;  in  closets  and  cellars  livid  fungus  started  out  on 
the  dank  walls;  sharp,  penetrating  odors  of  damp  and 
mold  crept  from  closed  parlors  and  "spare"  bed 
rooms.  Under  the  dense  masses  of  drifting  vapors 
people  sickened  here  and  there. 

"  It  is  an  unusually  onhealthy  season,"  declared  Mr. 
Eliphalet  Dundor,  and  he  became  proportionately 
cheerful,  while  the  discouraged  farmers  grumbled,  and 
their  overworked  wives  took  to  their  beds  with 
neuralgia,  lumbago  and  what  not,  according  to  their 
varied  constitutions  and  predilections.  The  village 
doctor,  wiser  than  he  knew,  went  about  administering 
his  favorite  nostrum  impartially.  He  had  found  from 
experience  that  a  fine,  strong  decoction  of  certain  bit 
ter  herbs— brewed  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  kitchen — 
cured  quite  as  well  as  a  multiplicity  of  more  costly 
drugs.  Faith  in  the  man  back  of  the  dose  might  or 
might  not  be  the  potent  factor  in  the  result;  no  one 
was  better  aware  of  the  value  of  a  cheery  word,  a 
jovial  laugh  and  a  warm  hand  shake  than  the  worthy 
doctor.  But  to  the  absurd  conjectures  concerning  the 
psychology  of  drugs,  or  the  potency  of  mental  sugges 
tion,  with  which  the  medical  journals  were  beginning 

130 


IN  THE  VALLEY  131 

to  concern  themselves,  he  prudently  paid  no  manner 
of  heed.  He  had  his  working  theory  as  mentioned 
above,  and  it  served  admirably  in  Tacitus  Four  Cor 
ners. 

Mr.  Dundor  and  Dr.  Wirt,  laboring  thus  amicably  in 
their  several  callings  for  the  weal  of  the  community, 
paused  in  the  muddy  road  one  wet  morning  for  a  so 
cial  interchange  of  news.  Dr.  Wirt  opined  sagely  that 
if  the  weather  did  not  clear,  he  would  shortly  have  the 
bulk  of  the  community  on  his  hands  for  treatment. 

Mr.  Dundor  inquired,  with  professional  propriety,  if 
any  of  the  cases  were  likely  to  prove  fatal;  and  ex- 
pessed  profound  regret  when  informed  that  Mrs.  Eras- 
tus  Winch  was  not  likely  to  survive  the  day. 

"  It  ain't  altogether  the  dampness  that  has  affected 
her,"  quoth  the  doctor  with  a  frown.  "Neuralgia  I 
can  cure,  and  a  weak  stomach  I  can  strengthen;  but 
when  it  comes  to  a  patient  fretting  herself  to  death, 
why  it  ain't  in  my  books." 

"'Course  it  ain't,"  acquiesced  Mr.  Dundor  compla 
cently,  as  he  leaned  forward  to  dislodge  an  overgreedy 
horsefly  with  his  whip  handle.  "  I  s'pose  'twas  losin' 
that  boy.  Queer  thing,  wa'n't  it  ?" 

"  Mighty  queer,"  agreed  the  doctor,  gathering  up  his 
reins.  "  Physic  don't  touch  the  case.  Good-day,  sir." 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  doc,"  cried  the  undertaker  ex 
citedly.  "Say,  ain't  that  the  boy  now  in  the  wagon 
a-comin'?  I  don't  know  the  man,  though." 

The  doctor  leaned  out  of  his  buggy  and  stared  over 
the  top  of  his  spectacles  at  the  approaching  vehicle. 
Then  as  he  turned  out  to  make  room  in  the  narrow 
road  he  cried,  "How-de-do,  Mr.  Armitage.  Hold  on 
a  minute,  will  you,  and  tell  me  how  you  came  by  that 


132  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

boy.  I  need  him  for  one  of  my  patients  to-day  more'n 
pills." 

Moses  Armitage  pulled  up  sharply.  "  Do  you  know 
him  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  yes,  I  know  him,"  said  the  doctor  dryly. 
"  He  b'longs  to  a  family  named  Winch  over  on  the 
river-road.  You'd  better  take  him  home,  I  guess;  his 
mother  ain't  likely  to  live  through  the  day." 

Moses  Armitage's  ruddy  face  had  blanched  to  a  curi 
ous  dusky  pallor.  "  He  was  lost,"  he  said  briefly. 
"  He  came  to  my  house." 

"I  guess  the  kid's  a  kin'  of  a  tramp,  same's  his 
mother,"  put  in  Mr.  Dundor  with  a  wink.  "  She  took 
to  the  road  when  she'd  been  better  off  to  home,  an' 
died  in  Winch's  barn.  Ain't  you  never  heard  the  story, 
stranger  ?  Most  the  folks  in  these  parts  knew  'bout  it 
at  the  time." 

Moses  Armitage  glanced  at  the  child;  his  face  was 
pinched  with  fear;  his  eyes  brimmed  over.  "I  want 
to  see  mummy,"  he  whispered. 

"To  get  to  Winch's,"  volunteered  the  doctor,  "you 
want  to  turn  'round  and  go  back  'bout  a  quarter  of  a 
mile;  take  your  first  left,  then  follow  the  river-road  for 
about  a  mile  an'  a  half.  The  boy  '11  know  the  place." 

A  rasping  scrape  of  wheels,  a  spatter  of  mud  and 
the  quick  plunge  of  hoofs  acknowledged  these  kindly 
directions. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  your  name,  my  boy?" 
asked  Moses  Armitage,  looking  down  at  the  little  fig 
ure  at  his  side.  "I  would  have  taken  you  home  long 
ago  if  I  had  known." 

The  child  nestled  closer  to  the  broad  shoulder.  "  1 
wanted  you,"  he  said,  tremulously. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  133 

There  was  a  long  silence  filled  with  the  monotonous 
slush — slush  of  the  mare's  feet  in  the  liquid  mud. 

"  Mummy  lives  there,"  said  the  boy  at  last,  in  a  sub 
dued  voice.  He  ran  eagerly  to  the  gate  when  the  man 
lifted  him  down,  then  stopped  and  turned  with  a 
scared  face.  "I  see  him,"  he  whispered;  "he's  on 
the  porch.  Won't  you  come  ?  " 

"I  am  coming,  boy,  when  I  have  hitched  Nelly," 
said  Moses  Armitage.  His  face  wore  a  curious  ex 
pression  as  he  glanced  about  him.  The  plain  story 
and  a  half  house,  its  thinly  painted  walls  showing  blu 
ish  white  through  the  fine  slanting  lines  of  rain;  the 
door  yard  drearily  overgrown  with  long,  coarse 
grass;  the  starved  geraniums  and  a  cactus  or  two  in 
rusty  tin  cans,  standing  sentinel-wise  before  the  seldom 
opened  front  door — these  were  the  familiar  sights  of 
the  countryside.  So  also  was  the  slouching  figure 
clad  in  blue  jeans,  which  regarded  his  approach  from  the 
shelter  of  the  narrow  porch.  Moses  Armitage  accosted 
this  impassive  figure  with  stereotyped  greetings.  "I 
have  just  learned,"  he  added,  "that  this  child  who 
wandered  to  my  door  some  weeks  ago  belongs  to 
you." 

A  wicked  light  leaped  up  in  the  dull  eyes.  "Then 
ye  heerd  what  ain't  so,"  was  the  response  in  a  savage 
guttural. 

"Isn't  your  name  Winch,  sir?"  asked  Moses  Armi 
tage.  "  I  met  a  couple  of  men  near  the  village  who 
directed  me  to  this  house;  they  told  me '' 

"  Oh,  yas,  I  persoom  so,"  sneered  the  other.  "  My 
name's  Winch;  but  1  don't  lay  no  claim  to  that  boy. 
My  wife,  'Liz'beth,  she's  a-dyin'  inthar,"  he  continued, 
his  voice  breaking  in  a  husky  quaver.  "My  wife — 


134  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

'Liz'beth — an'  all  along  o'  that  beggar  brat!  You  c'n 
take  him  away!  " 

"That  is  what  I  wish  to  do;  but  your  wife — she  is 
ill,  you  say.  You  will  allow  the  child  to  see  her,  of 
course.  I  am  not  aware  of  the  circumstances,  but " 

Neither  of  the  men  had  paid  much  heed  to  the  child, 
who,  during  this  short  parley,  had  crept  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  door.  "  I  want  mummy !  "  he  cried  shrilly, 
and  on  a  sudden  flung  the  door  wide  and  darted  in. 

A  great  broken  cry  answered  the  words,  and  Moses 
Armitage,  who  had  unhesitatingly  followed,  beheld  a 
piteous  sight.  The  cold  gray  light  of  the  weeping  day 
fell  full  upon  the  grayer  face  of  a  woman  who  clasped 
the  child  in  close  embrace.  "  Oh,  'Manuel — 'Manuel!  " 
she  murmured.  "  'Manuel — 'Manuel — 'Manuel! " 

"  I've  come  back,mummy!"  cried  the  child,  joyously. 
"  I  was  looking  for  my  father,  an'  I  found  him!  " 

The  woman  had  fallen  back  exhausted  upon  her  pil 
low;  but  she  fixed  her  glazing  eyes  upon  the  man  who 
stood  with  bared  head  at  her  bedside.  "Yes — yes!" 
she  said  eagerly,  as  if  answering  some  question.  "I 
know  him!  I  knowed  him  in  a  minute!  I'm — mighty 
glad!  The  book — he'd  ought  to " 

A  stout  woman  in  a  sunbonnet  bustled  in  from  the 
kitchen.  "Land!  I  wouldn't  ha'  gone  even  fur  a 
minute  if  I'd  suspicioned  she'd  go  off  into  another  of 
her  spells!  Here,  Mis'  Winch,  take  this."  She  slipped 
her  arm  under  the  sick  woman's  pillow  and  held  a 
teaspoon  to  the  blue  lips.  The  gray  head  moved 
feebly  from  side  to  side.  "  'Manuel,"  gasped  the  faint 
voice,  "give  him — the — book!  " 

The  stout  woman  presently  faced  about  and  straight 
ened  herself  with  an  air  of  professional  authority.  "I 


IN  THE  VALLEY  135 

guess  you'd  better  all  go  out  now,"  she  said  crisply. 
"'Tain't  any  more'n  I  expected  all  'long;  but  I'm  reel 
sorry  the  minister  wa'n't  here  an'  the  doctor." 

Erastus  Winch  started  forward;  his  haggard  eyes 
asked  the  question  which  his  tongue  refused  to  utter. 

"Yes,  she's  gone,"  said  the  woman,  raising  her 
apron  to  her  face.  "Slipped  away  jes'  like  a  shadder, 
to  a  better  Ian',  I  trust."  She  glanced  curiously  at 
Moses  Armitage.  "  I  s'pose  mebbe  you're  a  relation," 
she  began  uncertainly.  "If  you  c'd  not'fy  the — Land 
of  love!  if  it  ain't  that  boy!  I  declare  you'd  ought  to 
be  'shamed  o'  yourself!  But  this  ain't  no  time  to 
speak.  I  guess  you'd  better  take  him  away  afore 
he- 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  sibilant  whisper, 
which  seemed  to  penetrate  the  ears  of  the  man  who 
leaned  against  the  wall,  staring  unwinkingly  at  the 
quiet  face  on  the  pillow.  "She's  dead — 'Liz'beth  is — 
dead!  'Liz'beth's  dead!  "  He  uttered  these  words  in 
a  dull  monotone.  Then  he  straightened  his  limp 
shoulders  with  a  jerk.  "Give  me  the  boy,"  he  said 
thickly;  "he  done  it!  Twas  him  she  was  callin' fur, 
an'  he  never  come  till  'twas  too  late."  His  terrible 
eyes  seemed  to  devour  the  shrinking  little  figure;  his 
great  hands  reached  for  it,  where  it  cowered  beside 
the  dead  woman. 

Moses  Armitage  seized  the  boy  in  his  arms. 
"  Stop!  "  he  cried.  "  You  are  crazed  with  grief,  man! 
You  don't  know  what  you're  saying."  He  turned  and 
strode  out  of  the  house,  the  child  struggling  violently 
in  his  embrace. 

"I  want  mummy,"  wailed  the  little  voice;  "I  want 
to  see  my  mummy !  " 


CHAPTER  XIV 
Documentary  Evidence 

THE  great  Mr.  Smalley  himself  responded  in  person 
to  the  telegram  sent  by  Moses  Armitage  on  the 
day  following  Elizabeth's  death.  He  complimented 
Mr.  Armitage  upon  his  discoveries,  but  shook  his  head 
over  certain  deductions  which  he  had  unhesitatingly 
drawn  therefrom.  "The  evidence  certainly  points  to 
the  desired  conclusion,"  he  said.  "This  Bible  now, 
which  you  tell  me  was  found  on  the  premises  of 
Winch,  undoubtedly  contains  the  autograph  of  Im- 
manuel  Rossi  with  the  probable  date  of  his  birth;  this 
is  very  strong  documentary  evidence;  but  we  must 
establish  the  fact  that  it  was  found  on  the  person  of 
the  deceased.  This  I  will  endeavor  to  do  in  my  inter 
view  with  the  man,  Winch." 

The  man,  Winch,  when  cross-examined  by  the 
lawyer  on  the  day  of  his  wife's  funeral  proved  to  be 
an  unsatisfactory  witness.  "I  foun'  a  dead  woman 
an'  a  live  young  un  in  my  haymow  seven  year  ago 
come  January,"  he  said.  "Now  you  know's  much 
'bout  it  as  I  do." 

"Did  you  find  this — ah — book,  on  or  near  the  per 
son  of  the  deceased?"  asked  Mr.  Smalley,  producing 
the  russet-bound  Bible  with  dramatic  suddenness. 

Winch  fixed  his  frowning  eyes  on  the  book.  "  I 
tol'  ye  what  I  foun',"  he  said  shortly. 

"Very  good;  but  did  any  other  person— your  wife 
136 


DOCUMENTARY  EVIDENCE  137 

say — find  this  book,  on  or  near  the  person  of  the 
deceased  ?  " 

"Who  tol'  ye  to  come  here  an'  talk  to  me  'bout  my 
wife?"  demanded  Winch,  lowering  his  shaggy  head. 
"You  c'n  git;  that's  what  you  c'n  do.  I  ain't  got  no 
more  to  say." 

Mr.  Smalley  narrowed  his  lids  cunningly.  "My 
good  man,"  he  said  with  an  agreeable  smile,  "I  will 
be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  and  tell  you  that  if  we 
succeed  in  establishing  the  claims  of  this  child  there 
will  be  considerable — yes,  I  may  say  a  very  consider 
able  property  coming  to  him.  Now  you  maintained 
this  young  person  at  your  own  expense  for  some  six 
years  or  more;  did  you  not?" 

"  I  didn't  do  nothin'  fur  him,"  began  Winch ;  "  'Liz- 
'beth,  she  was  allers  a-fussin'.  I  didn't  keer  a  darn 

fur '  He  stopped  short,  his  eyes  fastening  on  the 

lawyer's  face  with  a  look,  which  the  late  Elizabeth 
would  have  recognized.  "Why,  yas,"  he  said  with  a 
rasping  cough;  "  I  did,  so  to  say,  s'port  the  boy  fur  a 
matter  of  nigh  onto  seven  year.  He  cert'nly  wa'n't  no 
expense  to  the  town." 

"  In  case  we  prove  the  boy's  identity,"  pursued  Mr. 
-Smalley,  still  smiling  blandly,  "reimbursement  would 

undoubtedly  be  made.  In  fact He  paused  and 

produced  his  pocketbook,  which  he  opened  with  ex 
treme  nicety  of  movement.  "  Mr.  Armitage  requested 
me  to  give  you  at  once  a  small  token  of  his  apprecia 
tion  of  your  kind  paternal  care  of  the  child.  Mr. 
Armitage,  you  understand,  wishes  in  any  case  to  adopt 
the  child  legally." 

"Wall,  I  don't  know  'bout  that,"  said  Winch,  his 
hand  closing  upon  the  note  which  the  other  tendered. 


138  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"  Bein'  as  the  boy  was  born  on  my  premises,  an'  bein' 
as  I've  took  keer  of  him  at  a  consid'able  expense  fur 
nigh  onto  seven  year,  I  guess  I'll  hold  onto  him  my 
self, — if  thar's  any  prop'ty  in  the  case.  I  c'n  look 
after  him  all  right  same's  I've  done." 

"  Quite  natural,  I'm  sure,  that  you  should  wish  to  do 
so,"  said  Mr.  Smalley  genially;  "but  you  must  under 
stand,  my  dear  sir,  that  it  will  be  necessary  to  prove 
the  identity  of  the  child,  before  his  claim  on  the — ah — 
competence  in  question  will  be  valid.  Now  this  book 
— this  Bible,  to  which  I  have  already  drawn  your  at 
tention — cuts  a  very  considerable  figure  in  the  evi 
dence.  It  contains  a  name  and  date  which  would  go 
far  to  settle  the  matter,  if  we  can  establish  the  fact 
that  it  was  taken  from  the  body  of  the  woman  and  not 
come  by  in  some  other  way;  do  you  understand  ?  " 

Winch  reached  out  for  the  book  which  he  opened 
and  surveyed  with  frowning  eyes.  "I  didn't  see  no 
book  out  to  the  barn,"  he  said  at  last.  "  An'  if  'Liz'- 
beth  foun'  it  she  didn't  say  nothin'.  I've  seed  her 
though,  come  to  think,  of  a  Sunday  afternoon  on  the 
back  steps,  a-readin'  to  the  boy  out  of  a  book  like 
this.  I  didn't  take  no  notice.  Whar  'd  you  git  it  ?" 

"The  woman  who  cared  for  your  wife,  and  who 
laid  her  out  after  her  death,  found  it  under  Mrs. 
Winch's  pillow,"  replied  Mr.  Smalley  succinctly. 
"Remembering  the  singular  last  words  which  your 
wife  uttered,  she  conceived  it  her  duty  to  give  the 
book  to  the  child.  She  did  this;  and  quite  naturally  it 
found  its  way  into  my  hands." 

"I'll  hev  the  law  on  Mirandy  Sproul  fur  that!" 
growled  Winch.  "  She  can't  c'llect  no  pay  fur  services 
arter  that,  you  bet!  Consarn  her,  what  in  thunder 


DOCUMENTARY  EVIDENCE  139 

did  the  woman  mean  by  takin'  prop'ty  outen  my 
house!" 

"We  shall — ahem — consider  it  a  very  fortunate 
circumstance  if  by  means  of  it  we  establish  the  child's 
identity,"  said  Mr.  Smalley.  "The  question  is,  how 
did  Mrs.  Winch  come  by  the  book?" 

"  It's  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff,"  said  Winch  with  a 
contemptuous  glance  at  the  lawyer.  "  I  never  had  no 
such  book,  an'  'Liz'beth  didn't,  that  I  know.  An' — an' 
— she  did  say  suthin'  'bout  a  book  the  las'  thing." 

"  Then  you  are  prepared  to  make  an  affidavit  that 
this  book  was  not  in  your  house  prior  to  finding  the 
body  of  the  boy's  mother  on  your  premises  ?" 

"Yes,  I  be.  I'll  take  my  Bible  oath  onto  it!  But 
say,  I  want  the  boy  fetched  back  here  to  my  house 
right  off.  Here  I've  had  the  hull  expense  of  his  keep, 
an*  he  ain't  never  been  no  use  to  me  so  fur.  I  guess 
he  c'n  arn  his  board  all  right  f'om  now  on, — ef  thar 
ain't  anybody  to  interfere."  The  man  swallowed  hard 
and  glanced  about  the  disordered  kitchen,  where  he 
had  chosen  to  receive  his  visitor,  with  a  curious  min 
gling  of  emotions  on  his  hard  face. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  Mr.  Smalley  smoothly,  "it 
will  be  advisable  to  leave  the  boy  with  his  present 
guardian.  To  put  it  plainly  the  child  is  either  the 
grand-nephew  of  Mr.  Armitage,  or  he  is  nameless  and 
penniless.  In  either  case  Mr.  Armitage  will  reimburse 
you  handsomely  for  his  keep,  but  only  on  condition 
that  he  is  left  in  undisturbed  possession  of  the  child. 
Of  course  I  understand  that  it  will  be  doubly  painful 
for  you  to  part  with  the  boy  in  your  present — ah — 
bereaved  condition.  I  can  assure  you  that  due  allow 
ance  will  be  made  for  all  the — er — facts  as  they  exist." 


140  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"Wall,  I  sh'd  think  it  'ud  be  wuth  as  much's  fifty 
dollars  extry — the  partin'  with  him,  I  mean,"  said 
Winch,  slowly  rubbing  his  hands  together.  "An* 
what's  more — thar's  somethin'  else.  Say,  this  hull 
thing's  cut  into  me  in  a  mighty  expensive  way.  Any 
of  the  neighbors  '11  tell  you  that  my  wife — 'Liz'- 
beth " 

He  stopped  short,  the  words  seeming  actually  to 
choke  him.  He  went  on  with  a  visible  effort.  "Wall, 
to  put  it  straight  to  ye,  the  boy  run  away.  My  wife, 
'Liz'beth,  she  wa'n't  never  the  same  arter  that.  We 
looked  fur  the  kid.  I  went  myself  an'  took  my  team 
when  I'd  ought  to  hev  been  harvestin'.  I  may  say  I 
los'  nigh  onto  fifty  dollars  right  thar,  fur  it  took  to 
rainin'  the  very  nex'  day  an'  the  hull  crop  mildewed. 
Thar's  a  matter  of  a  hunderd  dollars,  y'  see.  An'  then 
my  wife,  when  we  come  home,  wuz  all  broke  up;  an' 
she  took  to  her  bed.  She — she  never  got  up,  an'  here 
I  be,  d'prived  of  her  services,  an' — an'  fun'ral  expenses 
to  pay.  It  kind  o'  seems  to  me  as  though  I  c'd  c'llect 
damages  to  a  consid'able  figur'.  I've  been  thinkin' 
some  of  suin'  the  man.  What  bizniz  had  he  a-keepin' 
the  boy  fom  his  folks,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  " 

"I  should  not  advise  a  lawsuit,  my  dear  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Smalley,  dryly.  "In  point  of  fact  you've  no  case 
whatever.  It  was  not  a  case  of  kidnapping,  you  will 
remember;  but  as  I  have  already  assured  you  every 
possible  allowance  will  be  made.  I  will — ah — just 
note  down  the  items  you  have  mentioned."  Mr. 
Smalley  produced  a  fountain  pen  and  a  memorandum 
book  from  his  pocket.  "Parting  with  child;  fifty 
dollars,  I  believe  you  said  ?" 

"Better  make  it  an  even   hunderd,"  said  Winch, 


DOCUMENTARY  EVIDENCE  141 

with  glistening  eyes;  "that  boy's  valu'ble  prop'ty; 

he'd  be  wuth Say,  I've  a  right  to  his  services 

till  he's  of  age,  the  way  I  figur'  it ;  I'd  ought  by 
rights " 

"It  is  altogether  probable  that  you  have  no  rights 
whatever,"  said  Mr.  Smalley,  "but  I  will  say  a  hun 
dred  dollars  for  the  first  item.  Then  you  mentioned 
something  else;  grain,  wasn't  it?" 

"  Hold  on,  thar's  another  thing:  five  dollars  fur  use 
of  team  an'  services  of  self  a-lookin'  fur  him,"  said 
Winch.  "An'  that's  dirt  cheap  too.  By  thunder,  I 

wouldn't  put  in  another  day  like  it  fur You 

might's  well  put  in  dinner  fur  two  an'  feed.  Call  it 
seven  dollars  in  all." 

"Very  good,  and " 

"Seventy-fi"  dollars  fur  my  oats.  An*  that  ain't 
'nough  neither.  Oats  has  gone  up  to  fifty  cents.  If 
you  want  to  be  common  honest  you'll  call  it  a  hun- 
derd." 

Mr.  Smalley's  pen  wrote  busily. 

"  Fun'ral  expenses  an'  doctor's  bills  '11  foot  up  pretty 
steep,"  said  Winch,  pulling  at  his  tuft  of  gray 
whiskers.  "  I  sh'd  think " 

"Five  hundred  dollars,  say ?"  suggested  the 

lawyer. 

"  Wall,  I  guess  that  '11  cover  it,"  growled  the  other, 
his  eyes  bulging.  "Say  !  "  he  burst  out.  "  You  ain't 
makin'  a  fool  of  me,  be  you  ?  I  ain't  the  kin'  to  fool 
with,  I  c'n  let  you  know;  no  sir-ee,  not  by  a  jug  full! 
I'll  hev  the  law  on  ye,  if  ye  try  that — in  my  b'reaved 
condition." 

Mr.  Smalley  looked  up  in  some  astonishment. 
"My  dear  sir,"  he  said  with  awful  dignity,  "you  for- 


142  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

get  yourself!  — But  of  course  that  is  only  natural  under 
the  circumstances.  The  other  items,  the  loss  of  your 
— ah — late  wife's  services,  I  believe  you  put  it;  and 
compensation  for  the  child's  maintenance  for  seven 
years,  you  may  safely  leave  to  Mr.  Armitage's  gen 
erosity." 

"No  you  don't  neither;  we'll  settle  now,  an' you 
c'n  fork  over  the  cash,"  cried  Winch,  bringing  down 
his  huge  fist  on  the  table  with  a  sounding  crash.  "  It 
'ud  be  like  that  Armitage  feller  to  make  his  sneaks 
without  givin'  me  a  cent!  " 

Mr.  Smalley  raised  his  eyebrows  with  an  inscrutable 
smile.  "Very  well,"  he  said  dryly,  "we  will  finish 
the  matter  now.  And  you  will  then  sign  a  paper 
releasing  Mr.  Armitage  and  Immanuel  Rossi — his  heirs 
and  assigns  forever,  from  any  further  claim.  I  may 
say  indeed,  that  you  have  no  legal  rights  in  the  matter 
whatever;  but  it  is  Mr.  Armitage's  express  wish  that 
you  shall  be  treated  with — ah— due  consideration  and 
fairness." 

"He'd  better,  durn  him!  "growled  Winch,  expec 
torating  fiercely;  "  money  ain't  a  goin'  to  pay  fur 
some  things  't  I've  lost  'long  of  that  boy.  It  comes 
down  to  a  leetle  question  of  how  much  is  a  man's 
wife  wuth  to  him,  don't  it?" 

"  You  must  bear  in  mind  the  fact  that  Mr.  Armitage 
did  not  abduct  the  child,"  said  Mr.  Smalley  coolly. 

"In  point  of  fact "  The  lawyer  hesitated  for  a 

moment,  then  he  proceeded  to  lay  certain  well-known 
facts  concerning  Erastus  Winch's  life  and  general 
character  before  that  individual  in  a  manner  which 
caused  the  great  drops  of  sweat  to  start  on  his  narrow 
forehead. 


DOCUMENTARY  EVIDENCE  143 

"Who  tol'  ye  all  that?"  demanded  the  farmer. 
"Say,  who  said  I  was  like  that  ?  " 

"  That  is  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Mr.  Smalley 
pleasantly;  "but  you  cannot  disprove  what  I  have 
said.  I  will  now  offer  you  a  sum  to  settle  the 
matter.  You  can  accept  it  or  not  as  you  like;  but 
you  will  remember  that  beyond  a  moderate  amount 
for  the  child's  maintenance  you  have  no  claim  what 
ever." 

Something  like  twenty  minutes  afterward  the 
lawyer  left  the  house  with  a  satisfied  expression  on 
his  lean  face.  On  that  same  day  he  held  a  conversa 
tion  of  exceeding  interest  with  Mr.  Eliphalet  Dundor. 
That  worthy  individual  was  pretty  equally  divided 
between  a  fatuous  pride  over  the  circumstance  of 
being  closeted  with  the  mysterious  stranger  upon 
whose  movements  the  undivided  attention  of  the 
village  was  concentrated,  and  certain  long  buried 
qualms  of  conscience  which  had  of  late  shown  an  un 
pleasant  vitality. 

After  half  an  hour  of  rigid  cross-examination,  con 
ducted  in  Mr.  Smalley's  most  skilful  manner,  Mr. 
Dundor  suddenly  volunteered  the  information  that  a 
stranger  had  called  to  view  the  mysterious  dead 
woman  the  evening  before  her  burial.  The  words 
were  scarce  out  of  his  mouth  before  he  mentally  cursed 
himself  for  having  uttered  them.  He  had  a  curious 
sense  of  being  held  like  a  sponge  in  a  relentless  grasp 
and  of  exuding  facts  under  the  pressure.  He  mois 
tened  his  dry  lips  and  resolved  to  tell  as  little  as  pos 
sible  of  the  interview. 

"Describe  this  person  carefully,  if  you  please,"  said 
Mr.  Smalley,  narrowing  his  lids  to  a  mere  slit.  "  Was 


144  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

he,  for  example,  a  tall  man?  and  young — say  about 
five  and  twenty  ?  " 

"No,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dundor  glibly;  "  he  was  short — 
quite  short,  no  taller  than  yourself,  sir.  Of  a  spare 
habit,  smooth  face,  black  eyes  and  a  hooked  nose.  He 
was,  I  sh'd  say,  fifty  years  of  age,  if  he  was  a  day. 
Yes,  sir,  I  remember  him  very  well." 

"  Did  this — ah — person  betray  any  mark  of  interest 
in  the  deceased  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Smalley,  leaning  for 
ward  and  concentrating  his  pentrating  eyes  full  upon 
Mr.  Dundor's  perturbed  countenance. 

That  individual  wiped  his  damp  forehead  with  a 
large  black-bordered  handkerchief.  "Well  —  er  — 
he " 

"Think  carefully,"  snapped  Mr.  Smalley,  "and  give 
us  all  the  facts." 

"Well,  yes,"  stammered  the  other,  "I — I  may  say 
'at  he  did.  I  was  engaged  in  setting  up  a — a  casket 
for  the  burial.  The  remains,  was,  you  understand,  to 
be  buried  by  the  town;  in  the  usual  manner  you  un 
derstand.  Nothin'  stylish  nor  elegant  about  a  pauper's 
coffin,  an'  mighty  little  profit  to  the  trade.  Why,  I've 
conducted  the  county  fun'rals  in  this  'ere  deestrict 
fur " 

"Never  mind  that,"  interrupted  the  lawyer  frown 
ing.  "This  person  said  what — just  what,  if  you 
please  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  c'n  recall  the  exact  words," 
said  Mr.  Dundor,  rolling  up  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling  with 
a  candid  air;  "but  the  gentleman  give  me  to  under- 
stan'  that  he  was  willing  to  defray  the  fun'ral  expenses, 
if  I  would  keep  the  matter  private.  I  couldn't  see  no 
real  objection  to  what  he  proposed,  so  I  consented,  an* 


DOCUMENTARY  EVIDENCE  145 

he  paid  me  right  down  for  a  first-class  article.  I  had 
a  line  of  extry  fine  sample  goods  ready  set  up,  as  it 
happened,  so  I — I " 

"  You  buried  the  woman,  and  kept  the  matter  quiet 
as  the  gentleman  desired,"  said  Mr.  Smalley  quickly. 

' '  Very  good ;  very  good  indeed.  Now, "  he  paused, 

and  again  fixed  the  undertaker  with  his  ferret  eyes — 
"  did  the  gentleman  give  you,  or  leave  behind  him  any 
trace  of  his  identity  ?  his  card,  say,  or " 

"I  had  almost  forgotten  the  circumstance,"  whis 
pered  Mr.  Dundor,  "but  I  recall  now  that  the  gentle 
man  did  drop  his  handkerchief.  He  pulled  it  out  of 
his  pocket  along  with " 

"Was  there  a  name  on  it?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  believe  there  was.     I  was " 

"Have  you  the  article  in  question  in  your  posses 
sion?" 

Mr.  Dundor  fetched  a  long  sigh  of  relief.  "I  see 
what  you're  tryin'  to  get  at,"  he  said,  recovering  some 
thing  of  his  air  of  professional  authority.  "  As  coroner 
of  this  'ere  deestrict  an'  undertaker,  I've  found  that  a 
close  mouth  often  makes  a  fat  pocket — eh  ?" 

"You'll  lose  nothing  by  this,"  said  the  lawyer 
tersely.  "  Produce  the  article,  if  you  please." 

Mr.  Dundor  tiptoed  across  the  room,  where  he 
rummaged  a  long  time  among  piles  of  rustling  papers 
in  his  desk.  "  I'm  a  close  man,"  he  murmured,  as  he 
peered  at  the  lawyer  over  the  upraised  lid;  "close 
an'  cautious  when  it  comes  to  dealin's  with  the 
b'reaved."  He  shut  the  desk,  locked  it  with  delibera 
tion,  and  displayed  a  small  packet,  neatly  tied  with 
black  cord. 

Mr.  Smalley  tore  it  open  with  some  impatience  and 


146  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

glanced  at  the  name  embroidered  in  one  corner  of  the 
square  of  white  cambric.  "  Very  good,"  he  said  non- 
committally.  "I  will,  if  you  please,  retain  this  bit 
of — ah — evidence." 

Somewhat  later  in  the  day,  Mr.  Smalley  summed  up 
the  interesting  data  he  had  secured  for  the  benefit  of 
Moses  Armitage.  "Of  course  the  evidence  is  purely 
circumstantial,"  he  concluded;  "and  were  you  dis 
posed  to  press  your  claims  against  those  of  the  child,  I 
have  no  doubt  you  would  win  your  suit.  But  I  may 
say  that  personally  I  have  no  doubt  regarding  the 
identity  of  the  child.  This  handkerchief,  now,  bear 
ing  the  name  of  Jonas  Armitage,  would  seem  to  point 
to  the  fact  that  my  late  lamented  client,  actuated  by  a 
very  commendable  paternal  interest  in  the  deceased, 
visited  this  place  and — er — provided  for  the  disposition 
of  the  remains  in  a  manner  suited  to  his  station  in 
life.  Very  charitable  indeed,  it  seems  to  me,  consid 
ering  the  relations  which  had  previously  existed  be 
tween  - 

"Damnable!"  roared  Moses  Armitage,  his  ruddy 
face  growing  ruddier  with  honest  wrath.  "  He  had 
murdered  her  !  " 

Mr.  Smalley  glanced  disapprovingly  at  the  burly 
figure  of  his  client.  "You  are  of  course  entitled  to 
your  own  opinion  on  that  point,"  he  said  suavely. 
"  Now  if  you  choose  to  acknowledge  this  child  as 
your  brother's  grandchild,  it  will  be  necessary  to  take 
the  usual  legal  steps  in  the  matter;  after  which  you 
will  assume  your  duties  as  his  guardian.  I  trust  you 
will  be  guided  by — er — prudence  in  your  future  train 
ing  of  this  young  person.  He  will  one  day  hold  great 
power  in  his  hands.  In  point  of  fact,  we  may  say  that 


DOCUMENTARY  EVIDENCE  147 

money  is  the  chief  power  in  the  world  to-day;  a 
proper  understanding  of  this,  and — er " 

The  blue  eyes  of  his  listener  wore  so  distant  and 
abstracted  a  look  that  the  lawyer  left  his  sentence  trail 
ing  in  mid  air.  He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  wasting 
his  valuable  advice  on  unheeding  ears. 

The  next  day  the  idlers  at  the  village  station  wit 
nessed  the  departure  of  three  persons  on  the  morning 
train.  They  were  "  ol'  Mose "  Armitage,  from  the 
back  hill-road,  the  mysterious  Mr.  Caleb  Smalley,  and 
a  small  boy  with  a  white,  scared  face  and  big  brown 
eyes.  The  train  had  scarcely  pulled  out  from  the 
station  when  a  ramshackle  buckboard  drew  up  beside 
the  platform. 

"How-de-do,  Mr.  Winch,"  drawled  the  station- 
master,  from  his  easy  position  on  a  pile  of  boxes. 
"You  seem  to  be  in  consid'able  of  a  hurry  this  mornin'. 
You  wa'n't  calc'latin'  to  take  the  train,  was  you?" 
He  pointed  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  vanishing  train,  then  burst  into  a  discordant 
"haw-haw  !"  at  sight  of  the  discomfited  expression 
which  crept  over  the  face  of  the  man  in  the  buckboard. 

"Did  they  git  off?"  demanded  Winch. 

"Depends  on  who  yer  talkin'  "bout,"  responded  the 
man  in  authority  genially.  "Mr.  Armitage  left  us  this 
mornin',  likewise  the  gent  'at's  been  stoppin'  to  our 
hospitable  frien',  Snider's,  an'  the  boy.  Twa'n't  them 
you  was  wantin'  to  see,  was  it?" — for  the  farmer  was 
biting  his  nails  and  scowling.  "  I  heerd  you  got  paid 
han'some  fur  your  well-known  kin'ness  to  the  kid. 
Lordy,  what  luck  some  folks  do  hev !  " 

"I  ain't  got  all  't  I'm  goin'  to  hev,  not  by  a  long 
shot!"  snapped  Winch.  "  Tain't  a  patch  on  what 


148  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

I'd  ought  to  ha'  got.  I  wuz  intendin'  to  hoi'  the  boy 
for  a  spell  till  they  come  to  their  senses  an'  giv'  me  my 
rights.  An'  now  they're  gone — goll  durn  'em!  " 

"They  got  the  dead  wood  on  ye  this  time,  sure, 
Ras,"  chuckled  the  station-master.  "  I'll  bet  we  don't 
see  'em  back  in  these  parts  fur  a  spell  neither. 
You're  tol'able  cute  an'  knowin',  'Rastus,  but  you 
can't  saw  wood  'longside  that  little  polliwog  of  a 
lawyer!" 

The  gentlemen  of  leisure  assembled  on  the  platform 
burst  into  appreciative  guffaws.  In  the  midst  of  their 
merriment  Erastus  Winch  turned  sharply  around  and 
drove  toward  his  desolate  house.  Greed  and  grief 
fought  together  in  his  empty  soul;  one  instant  he 
wondered  dully  how  he  should  live  without  Elizabeth; 
the  next  he  regretted  poignantly  that  he  had  not 
grasped  more  from  the  Fortunatus-purse  so  lately  held 
out  to  him. 

"I'll  git  even  with  the  boy  yit  for  losin'  her,"  he 
muttered,  bringing  down  his  lash  with  savage  empha 
sis  on  the  lean  back  of  his  horse.  "  I'll  git  even  with 
the  little  skunk,  ef  I  hev  to  wait  fur  fifty  years  to  do  it 
— so  help  me  Godl" 


PART  II 

The    Altruist 


CHAPTER  XV 
The  Opinions  of  a  Crank 

IN  a  confidential  conversation  with  his  partner  Mr. 
Smalley  exploited  his  opinion  of  his  new  client. 
It  was  by  no  means  a  flattering  one.  "  Armitage  is  an 
out-and-out  crank,"  he  concluded  forcibly,  "un 
balanced,  full  of  foolish  sentiment;  in  short,  imprac 
tical  and  altogether  unfitted  for  the  suitable  bringing  up 
of  the  heir." 

The  immediate  cause  of  Mr.  Smalley's  irritation  was 
a  conversation  just  concluded  in  his  private  office 
where  Mr.  Armitage  had  listened  with  commendable 
patience  to  a  long  homily  on  the  responsibilities  of  his 
position,  as  delivered  by  the  sapient  lawyer.  "Let 
the  boy  understand  his  power  from  an  early  age,"  said 
Mr.  Smalley;  "instruct  him  in  the  rise  and  fall  of 
stocks  and  securities;  teach  him  caution  and  con 
servatism.  Educate  him  liberally,  of  course:  a  first- 
class  private  school  to  begin  with;  finish  him  abroad 
perhaps.  In  short  make  of  him  an  all-round  man  of 
the  world.  You  can  count  on  us,  sir,  for  advice  and 
assistance  in  all  questions  pertaining  to  these  matters." 

"It  is  my  wish,"  said  Moses  Armitage  tranquilly, 
"that  the  child  shall  know  nothing  of  the  money  till 
he  reaches  his  majority." 

"  What! "  exclaimed  the  lawyer,  "you  don't  mean 
to  cut  the  boy  off  from  the  anticipation  of  his  good 
fortune,  I  trust.  That  would  be  a  great  mistake,  my 

'51 


152  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

dear  sir;  the  idea  of  possession  is  very  educative — very 
educative  indeed,  sir.  Why  I  could  show  you  ex 
amples  of  that  right  here  in  this  city — young  boys  who 
are  being  trained  for  great  positions  of  trust.  They 
are  made  to  understand  their  powers,  sir,  and  obtain 
a  grasp  upon  them,  so  to  speak,  which  is  more 
desirable  than  I  can  well  explain  to  you." 

"That  is  just  what  I  wish,"  said  the  other  slowly. 
"I  wish  the  lad  to  grasp  the  idea  of  his  power — to 
help  others.  But  he  must  first  learn  the  world's  need; 
and  find  the  love  for  humanity  in  himself." 

Mr.  Smalley  shook  his  head  and  pursed  up  his  lips. 
"That  is  all  very  well  in  its  place,"  he  said.  "Most 
people  can  get  rid  of  money  easily  enough.  To 
wisely  conserve  it— to  increase  it— is  the  difficult  thing, 
which  I  trust " 

"I  shall  teach  him  to  get  rid  of  it  as  quickly  as 
possible,"  said  Moses  Armitage,  with  heat.  "The 
money  is  the  price  of  blood,  of  honor,  of  life!" 
With  that  he  arose  abruptly  and  terminated  the  con 
versation. 

Could  Messrs.  Trent  &  Smalley  have  seen  the 
guardian  of  the  Armitage  millions  buried  in  the  study 
of  a  certain  ancient  book  in  search  of  light  on  his 
future  course  they  would  have  been  further  affronted 
by  the  spectacle. 

"There  once  lived  a  man,"  said  Moses  Armitage  to 
himself,  "who  learned  to  know  so  well  the  meaning 
of  life  that  all  power  both  in  heaven  and  on  earth  was 
committed  to  his  hands."  He  resolved  to  conform  his 
training  of  the  child  as  nearly  as  possible  to  that  which 
produced  that  flower  of  the  centuries,  Jesus,  the 
Christ.  With  this  idea  in  mind  he  studied  his  New 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  A  CRANK         153 

Testament  with  a  serious  attention  which  he  had  never 
before  bestowed  upon  it. 

He  derived  from  this  study  certain  ideas  which 
seemed  to  him  applicable  to  the  case  in  hand.  The 
boy  Jesus  lived  for  the  most  part  in  the  country. 
He  was  environed  by  human  love  and  the  beauties  of 
natural  scenery.  His  life  was  simple,  yet  not  without 
comfort.  He  was  obedient — subject  to  human  author 
ity.  He  was  never  idle,  but  labored  in  the  tranquil 
Oriental  fashion,  so  that  neither  hurry  nor  worry  en 
tered  into  his  unfolding  life.  He  had  time  to  think; 
and  he  thought  deeply,  even  in  his  earlier  years.  He 
was  the  inevitable  product  of  his  thought  life — as  is 
every  man.  What  then  was  the  nature  and  scope  of 
that  thought  ?  At  twelve  years  of  age  he  asked  the 
amazing  question,  "Wist  ye  not  that  I  must  be  about 
my  Father's  business  ?  " 

His  thought  must  have  been  turned  habitually,  not 
spasmodically,  to  the  divine.  He  early  learned  to 
know  God,  whom  to  know  aright  is  Life  Eternal;  so 
little  by  little  his  mortal  became  swallowed  up  in  im 
mortality,  until  from  out  the  abundance  of  that  life  he 
was  able  to  minister  to  suffering  humanity  in  strange 
and  unlocked  for  ways.  And  when  death  apparently 
overcame  him,  "it  was  not  possible  that  he  should  be 
holden  of  it!" 

The  ideal  which  slowly  took  shape  and  substance  to 
itself  in  the  mind  of  this  singular  old  man  was  in  brief 
this.  The  child  who  had  thus  come  to  him  out  of  the 
dark  must  learn  through  every  channel  of  thought  and 
sense  to  realize  the  Life  Eternal.  He  must  compre 
hend  in  the  most  intimate  fibres  of  his  being  that  all 
life  is  literally  a  part  of  the  Father  of  Life — one  with 


154  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

its  source  and  hence  divine.  He  must  learn  to  see  in 
the  most  degraded  of  his  fellows  the  child  of  God, 
wandering  perhaps,  ignorant  of  his  heritage,  but  al 
ways  and  inalienably  the  son  of  the  Father.  He  must 
understand  further  that  power  belongs  to  God, 
whether  it  be  the  energy  of  accumulated  wealth,  or 
the  simple  motion  of  one's  arm — all  an  indivisible 
part  of  the  God-force  that  rolls  the  stars  along  and 
shapes  the  destiny  of  nations.  He  must  learn  that  to 
move  in  harmony  with  divine  will  is  the  highest  ideal 
of  humanity  and  the  only  way  of  true  progress. 

Such  a  man,  reflected  Moses  Armitage,  might  safely 
be  entrusted  with  millions  unjustly  wrung  from  his 
fellows.  Such  a  man  will  best  know  how  honestly 
and  wisely  to  restore  what  has  been  dishonestly  ac 
quired.  He  will  study  deeply  the  laws  of  demand  and 
supply;  he  will  discover  the  true  source  of  all  abun 
dance,  which  nature's  God  writes  large  over  all  his 
universe,  but  which  man  has  not  yet  learned  to  read. 

All  of  this,  and  more,  gradually  worked  itself  out 
from  the  wondrous  story  of  the  Nazarene.  The  man 
and  the  child  studied  it  together,  and  with  it  many 
things  more,  in  the  quiet  country,  and  in  the  throbbing 
heart  of  great  cities;  in  places  made  terrible  by  man's 
hatred  and  injustice  or  illumined  by  the  eternal  quali 
ties  of  love  and  self-giving. 

As  the  child  grew  older,  history,  science,  politics,  all 
were  examined — studied  in  the  light  of  that  luminous 
life.  And  because  Moses  Armitage  knew  from  bitter 
experience  that  idealism  is  in  itself  weak  and  futile, 
and  that  the  most  useless  of  human  beings  is  the  man 
who  in  a  world  of  uses  dreams  of  high  accomplish 
ment,  yet  fails  to  accomplish,  he  early  taught  the 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  A  CRANK         155 

child  to  put  into  instant  practice  every  truth  which  he 
learned,  for  thus  and  only  thus  does  truth  become  an 
inalienable  possession. 

That  the  boy  might  become  a  citizen  of  the  world, 
they  traveled  and  lived  in  many  countries,  yet  it  was 
oftenest  to  a  lovely  village  in  New  England  that  the 
two  returned.  Here  in  a  modest  cottage,  furnished 
with  the  simplest  comforts,  the  two  passed  many  a 
stormy  winter  or  peaceful  summer.  In  this  rural  so 
ciety  Moses  Armitage  passed  for  a  naturalist  of  some 
means,  whose  life  was  chiefly  given  to  an  eccentric 
but  harmless  study  of  bugs  and  beetles.  He  was  com 
monly  spoken  of  as  "a  real  nice  old  gentleman,"  and 
his  frequent  and  prolonged  absences  were  set  down  as 
"natural  for  such  a  queer  person." 

During  these  seasons  Immanuel  attended  the  village 
school,  and  mingled  freely  with  the  village  children  in 
all  their  work  and  play.  He  learned  to  swim,  to  skate 
and  coast,  to  build  snow  forts,  and  lead  a  spirited 
attack  on  a  rival  fortress.  He  was  a  favorite  with 
everybody  because  of  his  beauty  and  the  gay  sweet 
ness  of  his  nature.  During  these  joyous  years  all  the 
unnatural  seriousness  which  had  fallen  upon  him  like 
a  blight  from  Erastus  Winch's  sour  nature  vanished. 
He  was  a  happy,  light-hearted  child,  growing  healthily 
like  a  young  tree  into  his  appointed  stature. 

The  old  man  watched  over  him  with  a  yearning 
love  which  grew  with  the  years.  One  daily  custom 
of  the  two  must  be  mentioned  since  out  of  it  grew 
unmeasured  results.  It  was  simple  enough.  Moses 
Armitage  inaugurated  it  thus  on  the  very  day  the 
child  was  given  over  to  him  formally.  "  Immanuel," 
he  said  to  him,  "you  are  really  my  boy  now." 


156  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"I  am  glad!"  answered  the  child,  and  his  face 
glowed  like  a  flower. 

"But  you  must  not  forget  your  Father.  You  are 
his  child;  you  always  will  be  that.  In  order  that 
you  may  make  the  best  of  your  living,  you  must  every 
day  take  a  lesson  from  the  Father,  just  as  that  wonder 
ful  man  did  of  whom  I  told  you.  God  will  delight  to 
teach  you  if  you  will  but  listen.  Presently  you  will 
take  lessons  in  French,  German  and  Latin  from  teach 
ers  who  know  these  languages.  But  no  one  can  give 
you  lessons  in  the  art  of  being  what  you  can  be  except 
your  Father.  I  made  some  terrible  mistakes,  my  boy, 
before  I  found  this  out;  I  want  you  to  be  happier  than 
I  have  been;  there  is  only  the  one  way.  Do  you 
understand  ?" 

The  child  nodded  his  head;  his  great  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  face  of  his  uncle  with  absorbed  attention. 

The  old  man  observed  this  with  a  smile.  "  It  really 
does  not  matter  whether  you  understand  me  perfectly 
or  not,"  he  said;  "  I  am  not  able  to  teach  you  as  he 
will.  Just  as  you  are  listening  to  me,  my  lad,  and 
trying  to  understand,  so  you  must  listen  every  day  to 
your  Father.  Sit  quite  alone,  and  keep  very  still,  after 
you  have  bathed  and  dressed,  and  God  will  teach  you 
just  how  to  live  during  the  day  that  is  before  you.  Do 
not  think  your  own  thoughts;  only  listen.  If  you  re 
member  to  do  this  faithfully  every  day  of  your  life 
you  will  always  be  in  the  right  place,  and  know  how 
to  do  the  right  thing;  and  you  will  not  fall  into  the 
tangle  of  foolish  thoughts  that  make  the  world  seem 
dark  and  wretched  to  those  who  do  not  care  to  learn 
from  their  Father." 

This  was  no  new  idea,  and  Moses  Armitage  was 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  A  CRANK         157 

aware  of  it.  He  had  found  it  universally  observed 
with  more  or  less  understanding  of  its  meaning  during 
his  travels  in  Oriental  countries,  and  knowing  the 
great  tenacity  of  the  eastern  idea,  he  conceived  that 
the  custom  was  not  unknown  in  the  days  of  Jesus, 
and  that  to  it,  in  great  measure,  might  be  traced  the  un- 
foldings  of  that  wonderful  life,  which  are  summed  up 
in  the  simple  words  "and  Jesus  increased  in  wisdom 
and  stature,  and  in  favor  with  God  and  man." 

"So,"  he  argued,  "  did  He  listen  among  the  hills  of 
Palestine  during  those  years  of  solitude,  before  He 
emerged  into  the  light  of  sacred  history.  And  so  may 
a  little  child  in  any  age  grow  in  favor  with  God  and 
man." 


CHAPTER  XVI 
An  Experiment 

ONE  sparkling  afternoon  in  late  October  found  the 
two — the  old  man,  still  hale  and  vigorous,  and 
the  child  now  grown  into  a  handsome  lad  of  twelve 
— walking  slowly  down  a  wide  avenue  in  America's 
chiefest  city.  Palaces  lined  the  street  on  either  side; 
gorgeously  appareled  women  with  haughty  faces 
lolled  on  the  soft  cushions  of  the  rapidly  driven  car 
riages.  There  was  opulence  of  life,  of  color,  of 
motion,  of  magnificence  everywhere  visible.  It  was 
reflected  in  the  boy's  sensitive  face  as  in  a  mirror.  "I 
should  like  to  live  in  one  of  these  beautiful  houses," 
he  said  eagerly;  "I  should  like  always  to  see  this — to 
be  in  it! " 

"Well,  suppose  we  try  it,"  said  Moses  Armitage, 
regarding  him  keenly.  "  Suppose  we  see  if  this  is  the 
best  we  can  do  at  living."  He  paused  as  he  spoke 
before  a  small  but  splendid  mansion.  "Curiously 
enough,"  he  went  on,  "  it  happens  that  we  may  make 
our  experiment  in  this  house  if  we  wish.  The  people 
who  own  it  have  gone  to  Europe;  they  will  let  it." 

Nightfall  of  the  following  day  saw  them  established 
in  their  new  home.  Immanuel  was  frankly  delighted. 
The  drawing-room,  glowing  with  soft  color  and  filled 
with  objects  of  art  seemed  a  vision  of  fairy-land  to  the 
wide  brown  eyes  of  the  country-bred  lad.  So  did  the 
library  with  its  rows  and  rows  of  books  in  costly 

158 


AN  EXPERIMENT  159 

bindings,  its  rich  carpets,  its  bronzes  and  paintings 
and  its  wide  fireplace  where  many-colored  flames 
danced  up  the  chimney  in  the  cool  evenings.  There 
was  a  troop  of  well-trained  servants  in  the  house,  and 
life  moved  on  noiselessly  after  the  well-oiled  fashion 
of  a  perfect  machine. 

"I  like  it,"  announced  Immanuel  conclusively  at  the 
end  of  the  second  day. 

The  solemn-faced  butler  had  withdrawn,  and  the 
two  sat  alone  together  over  their  dessert.  "  Why  have 
we  not  lived  here  before  ?  " 

Now  the  question  of  money  had  never  been  so  much 
as  named  between  these  two.  The  child  had  accepted 
his  life  day  by  day  with  unquestioning  faith  and  sim 
plicity.  "Why  have  we  not  lived  in  such  a  house 
before  ? "  he  repeated,  his  eyes  roving  curiously  over 
the  rich  cut  glass,  silver  and  napery  and  pausing  at 
last  on  his  uncle's  serious  face. 

"  We  are  spending  a  great  quantity  of  money  on 
our  two  selves,"  observed  his  guardian. 

"Money  ?"  repeated  the  lad  questioningly.  "Yes, 

I  suppose  we  are,  but  if  we  have  it "  He  stopped 

short,  and  again  riveted  his  bright  eyes  on  the  watchful 
face  opposite  him.  "  I  do  not  know,"  he  burst  out 
after  a  short  period  of  reflection ;  "  I  never  thought  much 
about  money.  Perhaps  we  ought  not  to  live  here;  it 
was  I  who  wished  it." 

"We  have  money  to  spend  this  winter,  you  and  I," 
said  Moses  Armitage  gravely.  "  And  you  shall  decide 
how  we  are  to  spend  it.  We  can  afford  to  live  in  this 
house  and — yes,  we  can  buy  many  things  beside,  if 
you  wish." 

"I  am  glad!"  cried  the  boy.     "I  do  wish  to  live 


160  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

here,  and  there  are  so  many  beautiful  things  in  the 
shops — pictures  and  books  and  curious  toys.  I  can 
not  think  of  everything  at  once,  there  is  so  much!" 
He  drew  his  active  figure  to  its  full  height — he  had 
sprung  from  his  chair  and  was  walking  excitedly  up 
and  down  the  long  room.  "  We  are  very  rich,  are  we 
not?"  he  demanded  after  a  pause;  "Jenkins,  the  man 
who  waits  on  me  in  the  morning,  says  that  we  are." 

His  guardian  frowned.  Then  his  face  cleared  and  a 
curious  smile  crept  into  his  blue  eyes.  "Well?"  he 
said  interrogatively. 

"  I  like  to  be  rich,"  said  the  boy  positively.  "  I  like  to 
live  in  this  house.  I  shall  buy  everything  that  I  want. 
To-morrow  I  shall  go  to  the  shop  that  we  saw  yester 
day — where  the  pretty  old  Florentine  things  are;  I 
want  that  queer  carved  bell  for  my  room,  and " 

"To-morrow  you  will  begin  to  go  to  school." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  assented  the  boy,  a  little 
dashed  by  the  suggestion.  "  But  why  couldn't  you 
teach  me  this  winter,  uncle?" 

The  old  man  raised  his  shaggy  brows.  "  You  must 
see  the  world  on  both  sides,  my  lad,  if  you  want  to  be 
a  man,"  he  said  smiling. 

On  the  following  day  Moses  Armitage  himself  ac 
companied  his  ward  to  the  school  he  had  chosen.  The 
manner  of  their  procedure  on  that  day  and  on  every 
succeeding  day,  was  this.  The  well-appointed 
brougham  carried  the  two  to  the  corner  of  a  street 
some  miles  from  the  palace  in  which  they  lived. 
Here  they  dismissed  the  carriage  and  proceeded  on 
foot  through  several  dirty,  choked  thoroughfares 
which  at  that  hour  in  the  morning  swarmed  with 
poorly  clad  children. 


AN  EXPERIMENT  161 

"There  are  schools  much  nearer  home  than  this," 
observed  Immanuel,  when  they  paused  at  length  be 
fore  the  huge,  dingy  building  which  seemed  an  ob 
jective  point  for  the  diverging  streams  of  children. 

"  Yes,"  assented  his  guardian  briefly. 

"Why  must  I  come  to  this  school  if — if  we  are 
rich  ?  " 

"I  did  not  say  that  we  were  rich,  did  I?  Jenkins 
said  so." 

"But- 

"  Do  you  trust  me,  my  child?" 

"  Yes,  uncle." 

When  Moses  Armitage  met  the  boy  that  afternoon 
at  the  door  where  he  had  parted  from  him  in  the  morn 
ing  he  perceived  that  the  child  was  pale  and  drooping. 
His  heart  almost  failed  him  as  he  saw  the  light  spring 
into  the  heavy  eyes  at  sight  of  him. 

"Well,  my  lad,"  he  began  cheerily,  as  the  two 
walked  away  together,  "  how  goes  the  new  school  ?" 

"I  liked  my  teacher,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  long 
breath,  "but  — 

"You  liked  your  teacher — good!  Now  where  does 
the  'but'  come  in  ?" 

Immanuel  drew  closer  to  his  side  as  a  group  of  rag 
ged,  shouting  children  pushed  rudely  past  them. 
"They — they  are  hungry — some  of  them,"  he  whis 
pered.  "  The  boy  who  sat  next  to  me  had  no  break 
fast;  I  gave  him  my  lunch." 

"What,  all  of  it?" 

"I  had  breakfasted,"  said  the  lad,  hanging  his  head. 

The  carriage  waited  at  the  corner,  and  they  were 
soon  rolling  swiftly  away  from  the  grimy,  unpleasant 
neighborhood  of  Mulberry  Street.  The  boy  sat  silent 


1 62  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

and  thoughtful,  his  eyes  busying  themselves  with  the 
tall  buildings  and  the  hurrying  crowds  on  the  side 
walks.  At  dinner  he  ate  hungrily  at  first,  then  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  eying  the  table  with  its  wax-lights 
and  flowers. 

"What  do  they  do  with  all  that  is  left?"  he  de 
manded,  regardless  of  the  man  who  waited  behind 
his  chair. 

His  guardian  lifted  his  frosty  brows  and  shook  his 
head.  "I  couldn't  tell  you,  my  boy,"  he  said  easily, 
"suppose  you  ask  the  housekeeper." 

"There  is  more  here  than  we  need,"  the  boy  went 

on,  " much  more.  I  have  eaten  soup  and  fish, 

and  it  is  enough.  Yet  there  is  all  this,  and  birds  and 
sweets  to  follow.  It  would  do  for  their  breakfast — 
ever  so  many  of  them.  I  suppose  there  were  others 
who  were  hungry." 

"  Of  whom  are  you  talking,  my  child  ?  "  asked  Moses 
Armitage,  helping  himself  to  some  delicate  dish  which 
was  handed  to  him  by  the  attentive  servant. 

Immanuel  stared  at  him  with  grieved  astonishment. 
"If  you  had  seen  them  you  would  not  forget,"  he 
said.  "  I  am  thinking  about  them  all  the  while." 

When  they  were  seated  before  the  wide  hearth  in 
the  library  he  began  again. 

"  If  we  are  rich,"  he  said,  "  if  I  may  choose  how  we 
are  to  spend  some  money — you  said  that  I  might,  I 
know  what  I  wish  to  do  most  of  all." 

"What,  already?"  laughed  his  guardian.  "A  new 
bicycle — eh  ?  or  a  pony  to  ride  in  the  park  ?  " 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "Not  now — sometime, 
perhaps.  I  was  thinking  of  the  boys  in  school — yes, 
and  the  girls,  too;  they  look  so  different  from  the 


AN  EXPERIMENT  163 

boys  and  girls  in  Cohasset.  They  are  so  thin  and  gray 
in  the  face,  and  they  look  tired  and  old." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Moses  Armitage,  stroking  his 
beard;  "they  are  city  products." 

"  But  I've  seen  them  quite  rosy  and  happy  on  this 
street,"  said  the  boy  thoughtfully.  "The  baby  in  the 
next  house  has  pink  cheeks  and  the  boy  is  plump  and 
pretty.  I  think  it  is  being  poor — too  poor  to  have 
comfortable  clothes  or  enough  to  eat."  He  stopped 
short  and  stared  into  the  red  heart  of  the  fire. 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do  about  it,  my  lad?" 
inquired  his  guardian  lightly.  "  You  are  comfortable, 
are  you  not?" 

The  brown  eyes  flashed  lightnings.  "  I  can't  think 
what  ails  you,  uncle!"  he  burst  out.  "Comfortable! 

yes,  I  am  more  than  comfortable.  I  am "  He 

paused  as  if  in  search  of  a  word. 

"I  said  that  we  were  spending  considerable  money 
on  our  two  selves,"  suggested  Moses  Armitage;  "that 
is  quite  true.  But  so  are  many  others.  It  is  our  own; 
we  have  a  right  to  spend  it  as  we  will! " 

"  If  I  may  choose,"  said  the  boy  in  a  low  voice,  "  I 
will  buy  lunches  for  the  children  who  have  had  no 
breakfast.'' 

It  was  announced  in  the  Mulberry  Street  school  on 
the  following  day  that  a  friend  of  the  school  had  pro 
vided  hot  soup  and  bread  ad  libitum  for  those  who 
needed  such  refreshment. 

Immanuel  continued  to  come  and  go  between  the 
school  on  Mulberry  Street  and  the  palace  on  the 
Avenue.  As  the  weeks  wore  away  he  became 
more  and  more  silent  and  thoughtful.  One  even 
ing  he  appeared  before  his  guardian  with  a 


1 64  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

folded  paper  in  his  hand  and  a  determined  look 
upon  his  face.  "You  said  I  might  ask  the  house 
keeper  what  was  done  with  all  that  is  taken  away 
from  our  table,"  he  began  rapidly.  "Mrs.  Camp  is 
very  kind  and  polite;  I  learned  many  things.  I  put 
them  down  on  this  paper,  for  1  wished  to  remember." 
He  spread  the  sheet  on  the  old  man's  knee,  then  re 
treated  somewhat  anxiously  to  a  position  behind  his 
chair. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  exclaimed  Moses  Armitage.  "  Ex 
penses  of  table — expenses  of  servants'  hall — salaries — 
wages!  What  is  all  this  to  you,  my  lad?" 

"Mrs.  Camp  was  making  up  her  books  for  the 
month;  she  let  me  copy  some  of  the  figures.  It  seems 
so  much — for  just  you  and  me,  uncle!" 

"But  you  like  living  in  this  house — you  like  being 
rich,  my  lad." 

"I — I  should  like  it  if  the  other  boys  could  live  in 
houses  like  it;  if  they  could  be  rich,  too.  But  — 

Moses  Armitage  laughed,  a  curious  husky  laugh. 
"  Would  you  like  to  go  with  me  to-morrow  and  see  how 
some  of  these  schoolmates  of  yours  live  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  it.     I  want  to  see." 

And  so  it  came  about  that  these  two — the  child  who 
held  the  power  of  a  prince  in  his  small,  unconscious 
hands  and  the  old  man,  his  guardian — went  down  into 
the  region  of  the  fair  city's  shame  and  darkness.  In 
company  with  a  stolid  sergeant  of  police  they  toiled  up 
foul,  rickety  stairs  in  darkness  haunted  by  evil,  un- 
namable  odors  exhaling  from  fetid  sinks  and  damp, 
rotting  timbers.  They  saw  innumerable  children,  all 
pallid,  all  dirty,  all  starved  in  mind  and  body.  They 
saw  women  with  terrible  faces,  hard,  despairing, 


AN  EXPERIMENT  165 

deathlike.  They  saw  men,  sweating  over  their  ill-paid 
work  in  stifling  dens,  or  idling  in  narrow,  filthy  courts. 
Misery  everywhere  and  horrors  all  the  more  horrible 
because  the  human  beings  hopelessly  immersed  in 
them  seemed  not  to  realize  their  sufferings.  Sounds  of 
laughter  and  singing  hung  on  the  foul  air  of  a  den 
where  a  hag-like  woman  served  out  some  hideous  de 
coction  from  the  keg  on  which  she  squatted;  the 
laughter  was  even  more  terrible  than  the  unsmiling 
faces  of  the  children. 

"I  have  seen  enough,  uncle,"  whispered  the  boy 
after  several  hours  spent  in  these  explorations.  His 
face  was  white,  his  dark  eyes  dilated  with  horror. 
When  they  were  once  more  in  the  open  air  he  looked 
up  into  the  narrow  strip  of  blue  sky  visible  between 
the  tops  of  the  tall  buildings.  "  Why  does  God  let 
such  things  be?"  he  asked  in  a  stifled  voice.  "Are 
these  people  wicked  because  they  are  poor,  or  poor 
because  they  are  wicked  ?  " 

"Both,"  said  Moses  Armitage  thoughtfully.  "The 
pendulum  swings  betwixt  the  two;  they  are  poor  be 
cause  they  are  wicked  and  wicked  because  they  are 
poor." 

"  But  the  children — there  are  thousands  of  them. 
They  have  done  nothing  wrong." 

"If  the  children  could  be  saved  from  being  wicked 
—which  is  to  say  ignorant,  they  would  also  be  saved 
from  being  poor,"  said  his  guardian  slowly.  "There 
is  enough  for  all." 

"We  have  too  much — far  too  much!  " 

"That  may  be  true,  my  lad,  but  suppose  I  should 
bring  down  to  this  place  every  day  a  barrel  of  gold 
coin  and  give  to  these  people;  what  then  ?" 


166  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

The  screen  door  of  a  vile  saloon  near  by  swung 
open  to  admit  a  couple  of  frowsy  women.  The 
boy  glanced  inside,  then  turned  his  face  aside. 
"  They  would  spend  it  there,"  he  said  with  a  gesture 
of  loathing;  "it  would  do  no  good.  We  can  do 
nothing  then." 

"One  who  had  money — a  great  deal  of  money — and 
who  loved  his  fellow-beings — these  poor  little  babies, 
these  boys  and  girls — yes,  and  these  wretched  men 
and  women  more  than  his  dollars  could  do  much." 
The  old  man's  voice  was  low  and  anxious;  he  looked 
down  into  the  child's  face  almost  beseechingly. 

"1  cannot  do  much,"  answered  Immanuel,  meeting 
the  look  with  one  of  full  confidence.  "  But  I  can  give 
what  I  have.  Let  us  come  down  here  to  live,  you  and 
I,  uncle;  we  can  find  a  clean  place  near  the  school.  It 
would  not  cost  much — not  nearly  so  much  as  that 
great  house.  We  do  not  need  so  many  servants,  nor 
so  much  to  eat,  nor  the  carriage;  we  can  walk  just  as 
we  used  to  do.  Will  you,  uncle  ?  Oh,  say  that  you 
will!  I  just  hate  that  house;  I  have  hated  it  for  a 
month!  It  makes  me  sick  to  look  at  our  table  and  re 
member  the  miserable  pinched  faces  at  school.  If  we 
live  near  them,  uncle,  we  could  do  something  to  help, 
couldn't  we  ?" 

And  Moses  Armitage,  mindful  of  that  other  lad  who 
at  twelve  years  of  age  was  fain  to  be  about  his  Father's 
business,  could  not  say  him  nay. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
De  Profundis 

AND  now  began  a  new  chapter  in  this  singular 
education  of  a  capitalist.  Moses  Armitage  had 
come  to  believe  during  his  years  of  contact  with  the 
pure  young  life  which  had  come  into  his  keeping  that 
as  the  man  of  Nazareth  was  sent  into  the  world  to 
seek  and  to  save  that  which  was  lost,  so  also  is  every 
man  sent  forth  from  the  All-Father.  He  perceived  that 
the  world's  saviors  must  be  many  and  powerful,  that 
the  seeking  and  saving  must  be  carried  on  without 
pause.  He  beheld  in  imagination  the  child — the  man, 
Immanuel,  moving  amid  the  unseeing  multitudes 
carrying  the  Christ-light  into  the  dark  places  of  the 
earth. 

And  first  of  all  these  depths  must  be  sounded.  The 
boy  must  also  come  into  some  knowledge  of  his 
power  and  of  the  transcendent  joys  of  saving  his  kind. 
To  this  end  they  did  as  Immanuel  had  proposed;  they 
left  the  palace  on  the  avenue  and  went  to  live  among 
that  class  which  has  been  so  truly  and  terribly  termed 
"the  submerged." 

"We  will  make  friends  with  publicans  and  sinners," 
said  Moses  Armitage,  as  they  looked  about  the  plainly 
furnished  rooms  in  one  of  the  tallest  of  the  new  tene 
ments  in  the  region  of  Mulberry  Street.  And  the  boy 
understood  his  meaning. 

At  first  this  seemed  an  impossible  task;  filth  holds 
167 


1 68  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

aside  its  skirts  at  the  approach  of  purity,  guilt  eyes  in 
nocence  with  a  frown,  ignorance  despises  wisdom; 
but  love  is  the  talisman  before  which  all  barriers  fall. 
In  the  course  of  a  month  the  quiet  old  man  and  the 
handsome  boy  in  No.  15  had  passed  through  the  suc 
cessive  stages  of  suspicion,  curiosity  and  acquiescence 
to  a  point  where  the  woman  across  the  hall  ventured 
to  "borry  a  skillet  off  the  purty  b'y  wid  de  big,  black 
eyes." 

This  individual  reported  astonishing  sights  seen 
through  the  half  open  door:  a  geranium  with  red 
flowers,  a  tall  white  lily,  a  canary  trilling  in  a  gilded 
cage,  snowy  muslin  curtains  over  shining  sashes. 
Other  and  bolder  visitors  began  to  knock  at  the  door 
of  No.  15.  Little  Paulina  Schmidt — crippled  by  falling 
through  the  fire-escape  at  the  age  of  three — begged  a 
couple  of  clothespins  one  day  and  came  away  with  a 
picture  book  and  an  orange.  After  this  event  there 
was  danger  of  a  siege;  the  entire  juvenile  population 
of  the  tenement,  amounting  to  some  seventy  boys  and 
girls  of  varying  nationalities  began  to  hang  about  the 
staircase  leading  to  No.  15.  There  were  babies  of 
course,  but  they  didn't  count,  for  they  came  as  the  in 
variable  attachments  to  small,  anxious-faced  little  girls 
who  never  seemed  able  to  drop  their  burdens  for  an 
instant. 

It  presently  became  known  that  the  roof  of  this  par 
ticular  tenement  was  open  to  the  children.  The  like 
had  never  been  heard  of  in  Mulberry  Street.  After 
some  cautious  investigations  by  suspicious  mothers 
the  roof  was  voted  a  good  thing.  There  was  a  high 
parapet  on  all  sides,  sheltered  nooks  for  small  babies, 
sand-piles,  games,  swings,  picture-books  and  very 


DE  PROFUNDIS  169 

often  mysterious  heaps  of  apples  and  oranges,  presided 
over  by  two  smiling  Salvation  Army  lasses,  who  also 
preserved  order  in  marvelous  fashion. 

The  boy  from  No.  15  was  frequently  to  be  seen 
there,  playing  quietly  with  the  younger  children.  The 
old  man  too  in  his  faded  and  shabby  coat  sometimes 
talked  with  the  mothers  of  the  babies.  He  even 
"minded"  little  Sally  Baxter,  while  her  mother  went 
out  to  do  her  marketing  with  some  small  change 
borrowed  of  the  aforementioned  shabby  old  man. 

When  the  warm  spring  days  began  to  come,  boxes 
of  rich  earth  appeared — one  for  each  child  and  labeled 
with  the  name  of  the  owner.  These  boxes  soon  be 
came  the  centres  of  a  joyous  activity;  seeds  were  fur 
nished  by  the  Salvation  Army  lasses,  who  by  this  time 
had  become  justly  popular  in  the  house.  These  ac 
complished  young  women  supervised  the  efforts  of 
the  youthful  gardeners  with  their  accustomed  tact;  the 
enthusiasm  was  unbounded,  and  the  appearance  of 
the  fir'  green  shoot  in  Timmy  Haskin's  box  was 
greeted  by  a  shout  that  could  be  heard  in  the 
street 

The  quiet  old  man  and  the  black-eyed  boy  disap 
peared  from  No.  15  about  this  time  It  was  noised 
abroad,  however,  that  the  Salvation  Army  lasses  would 
occupy  their  rooms.  This  intelligence  was  received 
with  general  satisfaction;  these  young  persons  could 
and  would  scrub  floors,  nurse  sick  women  and  babies, 
cook  nourishing  food,  lend  small  sums  of  money,  ob 
tain  tickets  for  sea  and  country  excursions,  mediate 
successfully  between  the  inexorable  agent  and  the  dis 
tracted  tenant,  while  conducting  other  industries  too 
numerous  to  mention.  In  the  stifling  heats  of  July 


1 70  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

they  were  replaced  by  two  others  as  smiling  and  inde 
fatigable. 

Meanwhile  Moses  Armitage  and  his  ward  were  pur 
suing  their  studies  in  sociology  in  other  quarters. 
They  moved  often  in  these  days,  alternating  weeks  in 
some  shut-in  city  court  with  short  ocean  voyages,  or 
a  sojourn  in  some  cool  mountain  aerie.  Wherever 
they  lived  in  the  city  slums  they  were  followed  by 
stout  cheerful  women  who  devoted  themselves  to  the 
interests  of  the  women  and  children. 

Messrs.  Trent  and  Smalley  frowned  perplexedly  over 
the  demands  of  the  now  insatiable  Moses  Armitage. 
"  He's  making  up  for  lost  time,  I  should  say,"  re 
marked  Mr.  Smalley  after  forwarding  an  unusually 
large  check. 

"The  boy's  growing  up,"  replied  Mr.  Trent  com 
posedly.  "  Good  thing,  their  leasing  the  Van  Spuyten 
place." 

"Humph!"  growled  his  partner.  "Do  you  know 
what  they've  done  with  it  ?  Hicks  is  just  back.  I  sent 
him  down  to  see.  They  have  filled  the  old  historic 
mansion  of  the  Van  Spuytens  with  sick  children  from 
the  New  York  slums.  The  Lorimer  place  near  Boston 
—they  leased  that,  you  remember,  in  June — they've 
filled  with  sick  children  from  the  Boston  slums!  That's 
where  the  money  is  going!  " 

Mr.  Trent  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  "  Our 
excellent  client  has  never  inquired  very  strictly  into  all 
the  investments  of  the  Armitage  estate — eh  ?  " 

"No,  the  old  fool!  he  couldn't  touch  them  if  he 
did!" 

"There's  a  young  fool  coming  on,"  observed  his 
partner  dryly;  "and  he'll  know  in  good  time  that 


DE  PROFUNDIS  171 

something  like  half  of  the  Armitage  money  is  invested 
in  those  same  slums — and  a  mighty  good  investment 
it  is.  Twenty  per  cent,  on  the  original  sum  expended, 
and  piling  up  higher  every  year! " 

But  the  old  fool — as  Mr.  Smalley  uncivilly  termed 
Moses  Armitage — did  find  out  the  truth  of  the  matter 
and  in  the  following  way.  An  interesting  case  had 
just  been  brought  to  his  attention  by  a  certain  zealous 
agent  in  his  employ;  it  was  that  of  an  Englishwoman, 
widowed  of  course,  who  lived  with  her  four  children 
in  two  rooms  at  the  top  of  a  North  End  tenement. 
The  story  was  perfectly  commonplace.  This  particu 
lar  widow,  like  thousands  of  her  kind,  had  been  en 
gaged  in  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  keep  the  wolf 
from  the  door  with  a  needle.  The  tiny  weapon  had 
fallen  from  her  fingers  during  a  fit  of  sickness;  the 
wolf  had  entered  and  was  proceeding  to  devour. 

Moses  Armitage  climbed  the  dark  staircases  of  the 
tenement  on  an  August  day  when  the  temperature 
stood  98°  outside;  inside,  and  under  the  low  sloping 
roof  of  the  attic  room  where  the  wolf  had  entered  it 
might  have  been  120°.  The  widow  sat  propped  up  in 
a  broken  rocking-chair  before  her  machine;  one  of  her 
little  girls  was  laboriously  operating  the  treadle, 
anxiously  obeying  the  motions  of  her  mother's  livid 
lips. 

"When  I  am  well,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  a  ques 
tion  from  the  tall  old  man  who  stood  in  her  presence 
with  bared  head — "  I  make  overalls; Yes,  I  sup 
pose  the  man  who  gives  me  work  is  what  they  call 
a  sweater.  He  pays  me  sixty  cents  a  dozen  pairs.  If 
I  work  hard  I  can  make  five  dozen  pairs  a  week. 
Last  week  I  only  made  three  dozen;  this  week,  I 


THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  I  cannot  make  my  feet 
go.  I  cannot  see  very  well.  The  agent  was  here  this 
morning  for  the  rent.  I  have  nothing.  To-morrow 
we  are  to  be  put  out." 

The  woman  gasped  out  these  short  sentences  with 
a  curious  indifference  as  if  paralyzed  by  her  misery. 

"  Who  is  the  agent  ?  "  demanded  her  visitor.  The 
woman  told  him. 

To  relieve  the  immediate  necessities  of  this  case  was 
an  easy  matter.  Nevertheless  the  old  man's  heart  was 
heavy  as  he  made  his  way  through  the  reeking  halls 
and  stairways  to  the  street.  It  occurred  to  him  dully 
that  this  building  was  more  vile,  more  hopeless  than 
many  of  its  class.  He  resolved  to  find  out  the  owner 
and  beg  him  to  do  something  to  make  the  place  habit 
able.  Death  was  busy  here  in  these  dog  days.  The 
dingy  white  streamer,  mutely  telling  of  a  child  more 
fortunate  than  its  wretched  fellows  was  in  evidence  at 
one  of  the  closed  doors;  the  smothered  sound  of  a 
woman's  sobs  reached  him  as  he  strode  past.  The 
task  of  ameliorating  the  ceaseless  and  horrible  suffer 
ing  to  be  found  in  every  large  city  of  America  began 
to  appear  to  him  like  the  labors  of  Sisyphus.  The 
roots  of  this  gigantic  evil  of  greed  cropped  out  here  in 
the  sweating  system,  there  in  saloon  and  brothel,  and 
yonder  in  the  crushing  competition  of  trade.  How 
was  one  man  to  hew  his  way  through  this  impene 
trable  thicket  of  the  world's  miseries  ?  he  asked  him 
self.  The  words  of  that  One  who  spake  as  never  man 
spake  answered  him  out  of  the  silence. 

"  My  father  worketh  hitherto  and  I  work."  Truly 
if  one  but  wrought  in  the  power  of  that  understand 
ing  all  things  were  not  only  possible  but  assured. 


DE  PROFUNDIS  173 

From  the  agent  who  collected  the  rents  of  that  tall, 
evil-smelling  tenement  he  learned  that  the  building  be 
longed  to  the  Armitage  estate.  "  Fix  it  up  ?"  quoth 
the  agent.  "No;  I  have  my  orders  from  way  back. 
Besides  the  folks  like  it  just  as  it  is.  They  wouldn't 
keep  it  clean  if  it  was  fixed." 

After  this  interview  Moses  Armitage  made  haste  to 
acquaint  himself  with  the  list  of  securities  in  which  the 
Armitage  money  was  invested.  "  You  will  not,  you 
are  of  course  aware,  be  able  to  make  use  of  more  than 
the  heir's  allotted  income  in  any  case,"  Mr.  Trent  in 
formed  him  politely.  "As  for  repairing  or  rebuilding 
the  tenements,  we  must  tell  you  that  it  would  not  pay. 
This  class  of  buildings  forms  an  excellent  investment — 
excellent,  if  properly  managed.  Our  late  esteemed 
client  found  them  so;  but  his  policy  was  to  spend  as 
little  money  on  them  as  possible.  We  have  en 
deavored  to  carry  on  the  business  of  the  estate  accord 
ing  to  his  wishes,  which  is  of  course  entirely  right  and 
proper." 

Mr.  Smalley  joined  in  the  conversation  at  this  point. 
"It  has  been  found  impossible,  my  dear  Mr.  Armi 
tage,  to  unite  philanthropy  with  business,"  he  said  im 
pressively.  "  And  however  worthy  your  aims,  I  must 
say  to  you  that  your  course  in  regard  to  the  education 
and  upbringing  of  the  late  Mr.  Armitage's  grandson  is 
open  to  considerable  censure.  May  I  ask  if  you  regard 
it  as  wise  or  even  kind,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
word,  to  subject  so  young  a  person  to  the  contamina 
ting  influence  of  such  places  as,  I  understand,  you  have 
chosen  of  late  as  residences  ?  Have  you  any  right  to 
give  this  young  person's  character  such  a  peculiar  bias 
that  he  will  be  positively  unable  to  take  his  proper 


1/4  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

place  in  the  world  hereafter  ?  I  put  these  plain  ques 
tions  to  you,  Mr.  Armitage,  in  the  most  friendly  spirit. 
You  are  an  old  man  now,  and  I  hope  I  may  add  with 
out  offense,  that  you  have  always  been  regarded  as  a 
man  of  the  most  peculiar  views." 

Moses  Armitage  glowered  at  his  mentor  from  under 
his  bushy  brows.  "Are  you  a  member  of  the  church 
of  Christ,  sir?"  he  demanded  at  length. 

"A  member  of  the  church?"  echoed  Mr.  Smalley; 
"Why  certainly,  my  dear  sir,  I  have  belonged  to  the 
Presbyterian  denomination  for  many  years." 

"Presbyterian  be — hanged!"  quoth  the  guardian  of 
Immanuel  Rossi.  "  Read  the  sermon  on  the  mount!  " 
With  that  he  took  his  leave,  and  did  not  again  darken 
the  doors  of  his  lawyer's  office. 

Notwithstanding  the  fervid  protest  of  Messrs.  Trent 
and  Smalley  the  Armitage  tenements  were  repaired, 
and  as  great  a  number  of  ameliorating  adjuncts  intro 
duced  as  the  income  of  the  heir  warranted.  In  order 
that  the  amount  used  for  this  purpose  might  be  as 
large  as  possible,  and  also  because  Moses  Armitage  had 
been  somewhat  smitten  in  conscience  by  certain 
words  of  the  lawyer,  the  two  shortly  disappeared 
from  their  city  haunts,  and  on  a  certain  warm  day 
in  the  latter  half  of  September  found  themselves 
once  more  ankle  deep  in  the  dusty  blossoms  of  the 
mayweed  before  the  little,  half-forgotten  house  on  the 
back  hill-road. 

The  smiling  valley,  wrapped  from  the  world's 
tumult  by  fold  on  fold  of  vaporous  blue  hills,  stretched 
east  and  west  beneath  them.  The  crickets  chirped 
pleasantly  in  the  kindly  light  of  the  afternoon,  the 
bees  hummed  about  the  weather-beaten  hives. 


DE  PROFUNDIS  175 

"  I  am  glad  to  be  at  home,"  sighed  Moses  Armitage. 

And  Immanuel  gazing  up  into  the  deeply-lined 
face — which  was  not  so  ruddy  as  in  days  past, 
nodded  his  dark  head  soberly.  "  I  am  glad  too,"  he 
said. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
Alone  in  the  World 

LIFE  in  the  house  on  the  back  hill-road  went  on 
after  the  old  fashion.  "  I  must  rest  awhile  from 
the  world  and  from  people,"  said  Moses  Armitage. 
In  pursuance  of  this  end  he  relapsed  for  a  time  into  his 
hermit  ways,  spending  hours  alone  on  the  hills. 

"If  you  have  a  problem  to  work  out,  my  lad,"  he 
said  to  Immanuel,  "  carry  it  if  you  can  into  the  coun 
try  under  the  open  sky.  The  soul  more  easily  clears  a 
breathing-space  about  it  there  than  in  the  smothering 
world-fog.  One  needs  elbow  room  and  the  sight  of 
the  Infinite  overhead  to  realize  that  one  is  free  from  all 
man-made  laws  and  conventions.  There  is  but  one 
law — thank  God — which  touches  your  life  and  mine, 
and  that  is  the  law  of  love." 

By  which  it  may  be  inferred  that  Moses  Armitage 
had  succeeded  in  finally  ridding  his  mind  of  the  ideas 
which  the  sagacious  Mr.  Trent  had  so  laboriously  at 
tempted  to  implant.  Subsequent  attempts  to  mould 
the  destiny  of  the  Armitage  heir  which  were  made  by 
this  and  other  well-meaning  gentlemen  met  with 
similar  results.  They  were  compelled  to  witness  his 
education  carried  on  after  a  fashion  which  they  were 
pleased  to  term  "  suicidal!  "  They  watched  his  career 
in  a  certain  university  of  note  with  a  curiosity  which 
slowly  merged  into  unqualified  contempt  for  the  sole 

176 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  177 

survivor  of  the  Armitage  name.  Immanuel  Rossi  was 
not  installed  in  luxurious  quarters;  he  was  not  fur 
nished  with  unlimited  spending  money  and  a  tacit  per 
mission  to  sow  large  crops  of  wild  oats.  Moses 
Armitage  held  with  regard  to  wild  oats  that  obsolete 
doctrine  which  has  yet  to  be  disproved,  and  which  is 
embodied  in  the  words  of  an  ancient  book:  "  Be  not 
deceived,  God  is  not  mocked.  Whatsoever  a  man 
soweth  that  shall  he  also  reap." 

The  young  heir  to  ill-gotten  millions  was  modestly 
housed,  soberly  clothed  and  encouraged  by  frequent 
visits  from  his  watchful  guardian  to  hard  study,  not 
only  of  books  but  of  men,  not  only  of  words  but  of 
thoughts,  not  only  of  things  but  of  the  eternal  realities 
which  lie  back  of  things,  and  whose  roots  strike  deep 
into  eternity. 

Vacations  were  spent  in  sociological  researches  along 
the  old  lines.  The  slums  were  still  visited  regularly. 
The  two  had  made  friends  with  publicans  and  sinners 
and  the  friendship  was  not  broken  as  the  years  ad 
vanced.  More  than  ever  was  the  wise  old  man — 
termed  also  "that  senile  old  fool  " — convinced  of  this, 
that  if  a  man  would  realize  the  highest  ideal  of  hu 
manity  there  is  but  one  way — the  way  Christ  Jesus, 
who  came  not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minister. 

During  all  of  this  period  the  little  house  on  the  back 
hill-road  remained  the  Mecca  to  which  the  two  came 
back  at  frequent  intervals.  While  there  they  were 
simply  "Ol'  Mose  Armitage  an'  the  Winch  boy  'at  he 
"dopted." 

The  country  folk,  who  still  stopped  to  water  their 
horses  at  the  trough  by  the  red  barn,  guessed  "  'at  Ol' 
Mose  didn't  git  much  prop'ty  after  all."  There  was 


i;8  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

certainly  no  sign  of  affluence  visible  about  the  place. 
A  new  roof  there  was,  for  the  old  one  had  become 
a  leaky  sieve,  and  a  "hired  man"  who  showed  an 
astonishing  knowledge  of  cooking  and  an  equally 
astonishing  ignorance  of  "chores."  Aside  from  these 
slight  indications  of  a  competency,  the  simplicity  of 
the  life  there  remained  unchanged.  The  tall  clock 
still  ticked  from  its  corner  in  the  living  room,  the 
sunshine  fell  an  unbroken  flood  across  the  painted 
floor;  the  little  round  table  became  alternately  a  dining 
table  and  a  study  table  as  the  hands  moved  on  the 
white  face  of  the  clock.  The  honey  was  as  fragrant 
as  of  old  and  the  brown  bread  just  as  sweet  to  the  un- 
cloyed  appetites  which  came  to  it  fresh  from  field  and 
wood. 

It  was  on  the  little  farm  that  Immanuel  Rossi  devel 
oped  a  pair  of  shoulders,  a  depth  of  lung  and  a  sheath  of 
muscle  which  won  him  divers  cups  and  medals  in  the 
"  'Varsity  "  field.  He  learned  to  plow  and  to  cultivate, 
to  sow  and  to  reap,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  re 
ceived  flattering  offers  from  neighboring  farmers  to 
"  hire  "  for  the  summer  months. 

It  was  a  request  of  this  sort  from  a  certain  as 
tute  individual  who  had  stopped  to  water  his  horse  at 
the  trough,  that  sent  Immanuel  Rossi  to  his  guardian 
with  a  clouded  brow.  "What  am  I  to  do,  anyway, 
uncle  ? "  he  asked,  fixing  his  eyes  anxiously  on  the 
placid  face  of  the  old  man.  "  I  must  have  a  vocation 
of  some  sort,  I  suppose.  I — I  am  different  from  the 
other  fellows  somehow,"  he  added  after  a  pause. 
"All  of  them  have  known  from  the  first.  There  is 
Lorimer,  he  is  to  be  a  lawyer,  Brenton  a  doctor;  and 
so  with  all  the  others." 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  179 

Moses  Armitage  looked  at  the  young  man  with  hon 
est  pride  and  joy  shining  in  his  blue  eyes.  Here  was 
one  who  had  never  done  anything  to  hurt  either  his 
soul  or  his  body,  he  thought,  as  his  glance  wandered 
happily  over  the  dark  handsome  head,  the  well-knit 
athletic  figure,  the  clean-cut  noble  features.  "  Imman- 
uel!"hesaid.  "Immanuel!"  Something  unusual  in 
his  tone  and  look  brought  the  young  man  to  his  side, 
an  anxious  question  in  his  eyes. 

"Immanuel,"  repeated  Moses  Armitage  almost  in  a 
whisper;  then  he  added,  "God  with  us — yes,  that  is 
what  it  means,  and  that  is  what  I  want  you  to  be  to 
the  world — a  savior  after  the  pattern  of  the  man,  Jesus, 
who  gave  himself  and  all  his  powers  to  the  redemption 
of  the  lost." 

"  Yes,  uncle,"  said  the  young  man  simply,  "  I  shall 
always  try  to  do  that;  but  ought  I  not  to  have  a  pro 
fession — a  business;  one  must  be  a  producer  of  some 
sort."  He  stopped  short  and  hesitated,  then  added 
with  a  half  embarrassed  laugh,  "Si'  Collins  stopped  me 
as  I  was  coming  up  to  the  house.  '  See  yere,  young 
man/  he  drawled,  'ain't  yer  a-goin'  to  git  down  to 
work  purty  soon;  thar  ain't  anythin'  round  yere  to 
keep  a  feller  like  you  a-goin'  as  you'd  ought-to.  You'd 
better  come  an'  cut  hay  fur  me  nex'  week;  I'll  give  ye 
a  dollar  an'  a  half  a  day  an'  yer  board.' " 

Moses  Armitage  laughed.  "Collins  has  a  sapient 
eye  for  brawn  and  muscle,  lad,"  he  said,  laying  his 
hand  fondly  on  the  muscular  brown  one  that  lay  on 
the  other's  knee.  Young  Rossi  dropped  his  eyes  to 
this  caressing  hand,  then  started  and  raised  them 
questioningly  to  his  guardian's  face. 

"Yes,"  said  Moses  Armitage  quietly,    "my  hands 


i8o  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

tell  the  story  without  words.  I  am  an  old,  old  man, 
my  child;  my  days  on  earth  are  almost  told.  No— do 
not  look  at  me  like  that;  you  will  not  be  left  desolate. 
You  know  by  this  time  as  well  as  I  can  tell  you  that 
your  friend  and  guide  is  always  with  you.  Then  too, 

there  are  possibilities "  The  old  man's  head  had 

sunken  upon  his  breast;  his  eyes  were  fixed  dreamily 
upon  the  wide  prospect  of  the  sunlit  valley,  flecked 
with  drifting  cloud-shadows.  "  I  have  come  to  see," 
he  continued  in  a  low  voice,  "that  the  veil  is  very  thin 
• — nay,  there  is  no  veil;  we  are  spirit — living  the  spirit 
life  now  as  truly  as  we  ever  shall,  and  they  are  spirit 
— sent  forth  to  minister.  As  we  reach  up  through  the 
silence  we  touch  them  in  the  thought  world — we  can 
hear  their  voices." 

He  stopped  short  and  recalled  himself  to  the  present 
with  a  visible  effort.  "But  it  was  not  of  this  that  I 
wished  to  speak.  The  time  is  come  when  you  must 
choose  your  course;  but  I  have  no  fears  for  you;  the 
pilot  has  been  long  at  the  helm." 

Then  he  told  him  all.  The  talk  between  them  lasted 
far  into  the  night,  and  when  it  was  ended  Moses  Ar- 
mitage  kissed  and  blessed  his  adopted  son,  kissed  and 
blessed  him  after  the  manner  of  the  patriarchs  of  old. 
And  when  all  was  said  he  laid  him  down  in  his  bed, 
the  young  man  assisting  him  tenderly.  "  1  am  tired," 
he  said,  and  slept  almost  on  the  instant  like  a  little 
child. 

In  the  morning  Immanuel,  coming  into  his  room  in 
the  rosy  dawn,  found  the  old  man  still  asleep,  a  smile 
of  unspeakable  content  on  his  features.  As  he  bent 
over  him  he  perceived  that  there  was  indeed  no  veil 
between  the  longed-for  dead  and  that  loving  spirit. 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  181 

Moses  Armitage  had  entered  into  "the  rest  that  re- 
maineth." 

The  young  man  met  his  sorrow  alone  in  the  little 
house,  as  Moses  Armitage  had  met  his.  But  solitude 
and  tender  thoughts  of  the  past  could  not  hold  him 
long;  he  must  stoop  his  young  shoulders  to  the  huge 
burden  of  wealth  which  awaited  them.  Messrs.  Trent 
and  Smalley  found  little  to  criticise  in  the  conduct  of 
the  heir  to  the  Armitage  millions  during  the  long  weari 
some  days  when  the  necessary  steps  were  being  taken 
to  establish  him  in  his  possessions.  His  questions 
were  few  and  to  the  point;  his  comments  brief. 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  period  Mr.  Smalley  took  it 
upon  himself  to  administer  some  paternal  advice  on 
the  management  of  affairs.  "You  understand,  of 
course,  my  dear  Mr.  Rossi,  that  we  are  always  at  your 
service  in  every  possible  way.  We  have  facilities, 
possibly  of  use  to  you,  for  the  securing  of  a  proper  es 
tablishment.  You  will,  we  trust,  wish  to  mingle  with 
your  equals  in  a  manner — ah — as  you  have  not  been 
able  to  do  heretofore,  with  a  view — er — well,  to  put  it 
briefly,  you  will  of  course  wish  to  marry  in  due  time. 
And— I  hope  you  will  pardon  an  old  man  for  speaking 
quite  plainly  and  bluntly;  your  late  guardian  was  a 
man  of  peculiar  views— very  peculiar,  but  his  opinions 
are  not  necessarily  binding  upon  you.  For  example 
these  eccentric  ideas  of  his  about  the  tenement  prop 
erties, — very  singular — very  singular  indeed.  Both 
Mr.  Trent  and  myself  have  regretted  that  you  have 
been  compelled  to  forego  so  many  of  the  proper 
pleasures  of  youth  on  account  of  all  this — well  I  may 
say  this  straight-laced  and  — 

"You  will  pardon  me,  Mr.  Smalley,"  said  Immanuel 


1 82  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

coldly,  "if  I  decline  to  discuss  my  uncle's  character 
with  you." 

"Oh,  ah — pardon  me;  of  course — perfectly  proper 
in  view  of  recent  bereavement,  I'm  sure,"  began  the 
lawyer  fussily.  "But  am  I  to  understand  that  you 
have  become  so  imbued  with  your — ah — estimable 

guardian's  views  that  you "  Mr.  Smalley  paused 

to  cough  interrogatively;  but  as  his  client  preserved  a 
frigid  silence,  he  went  on.  "That — er — well,  to  be 
brief,  may  I  ask  what  are  your  views  regarding  the— 
tenements — say  ?  " 

"  I  shall  tear  them  down  at  once,"  said  young  Rossi 
briefly. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Smalley.  "But  yes,  yes, 
—you  may  be  right!  The  frontage  on  Hester  Street 
has  become  valuable  for  business  purposes.  You  will 
put  up  office-buildings  in  their  places — eh  ?" 

"I  shall  build  decent  houses  for  the  poor  in  the 
room  of  every  one  of  the  indecent  rookeries  that  stand 
as  my  property,"  said  the  young  man  conclusively. 

"But,  my  dear  sir,  I  beg  you  to  consider,  just 
briefly,  before  you  take  this — ah — very  disastrous 
step.  You  are  probably  not  aware  of  the  facts  in  the 
case;  but  I  can  make  it  clear  to  you  in  just  one 
minute." 

Mr.  Smalley's  pencil  was  exceedingly  busy  for 
several  minutes;  he  then  submitted  to  his  client's 
attention  a  number  of  groups  of  neat  figures.  "  Now 
this  will  just  serve  to  give  you  a  little  insight  into  the 
matter  of  tenement  investments,"  he  said  earnestly. 
"The  income  from  the  Hester  Street  houses  as  they 
stand,  in  spite  of  the  depletion  caused  by  late  repairs 
and  improvements,  is  twenty-two  per  cent,  on  the 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  183 

original  investment;  twenty-two  per  cent. — do  you 
quite  understand  me?  You  will  readily  see  that  no 
class  of  investments  compares  with  it;  it  is  a  veritable 
gold  mine!  But  to  tear  them  down!  Only  consider 
the  poor  friendless  families  you  would  render  home 
less;  where  can  they  go?" 

Immanuel  Rossi  smiled. 

"And  then,  too,"  continued  Mr.  Smalley  rapidly, 
"  1  can  prove  to  you  in  ten  minutes  that  the  interest 
on  the  reinvestment  which  you  propose  would  be  but 
five  per  cent. — very  possibly  not  over  four,  if  you 
insist  upon  this — yes,  I  will  say  it,  this  exceedingly 
foolish  and  ill-advised  step!" 

"Government  bonds  yield  but  three  and  a  half," 
observed  the  young  man  rising.  "  We  will  talk  this 
over  some  other  time,  if  you  like,  Mr.  Smalley,"  he 
added  kindly,  as  he  noted  the  trembling  of  the  old 
lawyer's  fingers.  "1  shall  do  nothing  unbusinesslike, 
you  may  depend  upon  it." 

And  with  this  scant  comfort  his  legal  adviser  was 
forced  to  be  content. 

Busy  months  followed  this  conversation,  in  the 
course  of  which  the  heir  to  the  Armitage  millions 
discovered  that  the  path  of  the  rich  man  does  not 
lie  in  green  pastures  nor  by  the  side  of  still  waters. 
He  carried  his  point,  however,  in  spite  of  the  skilful 
opposition  of  his  lawyers. 

Before  the  first  year  had  passed  Mr.  Smalley  in 
formed  his  partner  that  he  would  now  wash  his  hands 
of  the  whole  business.  This  was,  of  course,  a  mere 
figure  of  speech,  as  he  manifested  no  intention  of  re 
linquishing  his  very  lucrative  post  as  legal  adviser  to 
the  estate.  "  Old  man  Armitage  wasn't  a  circumstance 


1 84  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

to  this  obstinate  boy,"  said  Mr.  Smalley  plaintively. 
"  When  I  remember  how  I  advised  the  grandfather  of 
this  misguided  young  man  with  regard  to  tenement 
investments,  and  how  eagerly  he  received  my  sugges 
tions — why  it  was  I  who  purchased  those  valuable 
blocks  in  Boston,  acting  as  my  esteemed  client's  agent. 
It  was  I  who  secured  options  on  all  the  north  and  east 
side  properties  in  this  city  which  have  since  proved 
such  a  mine  of  wealth.  And  now " 

Mr.  Smalley's  narrow  lids  reddened;  he  seemed 
actually  on  the  verge  of  tears.  It  was  Mr.  Trent  who 
suggested  optimistically  that  it  would  take  a  long  time 
to  make  a  hole  in  such  a  huge  property;  and  that  after 
all  it  was  only  a  matter  of  reinvestment  at  a  lower 
rate  per  cent. 

"But  he  might  become  one  of  the  richest  men  in 
America — and  that  means  the  richest  in  the  world," 
cried  Mr.  Smalley  passionately.  "Why,  I  spoke  to 
him  yesterday  about  a  proposed  combine  which  would 
inevitably  double  the  property  within  five  years;  and 
what  do  you  suppose  he  said  ?" 

Mr.  Trent  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled. 

"  If  I  didn't  know  better  I  should  say  that  the  fellow 
must  be  lacking  in  an  ordinary  amount  of  intellect," 
pursued  Mr.  Smalley  gloomily.  " He  actually  said,  'I 
don't  wish  to  be  richer,  I  intend  to  be  poorer — much 
poorer  in  five  years!'  Now  what  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

Mr.  Trent  shrugged  and  smiled  again.  "Not  per 
haps  very  surprising  in  so  young  a  person,"  he  said 
guardedly.  "He  has  not — we  must  remember — seen 
much  of  the  world  as  yet.  I  believe  the  two  of  them 
lived  once  a  month  or  so  in  the  Van  Spuyten  house  on 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  185 

Fifth  Avenue.  But  they  didn't  even  catch  a  glimpse 
of  society  at  that  time.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  as 
our  esteemed  client  is  a  very  personable  young  man, 
possibly " 

"  Ah,  I  see  what  you  mean!  "  interrupted  Mr.  Smal- 
ley  excitedly.  "Yes — yes,  that's  the  idea!  But  I 
don't  know  how  to  bring  it  about;  these  cliff-dwellers 
guard  their  approaches  pretty  carefully."  Mr.  Smalley 
rubbed  his  hands  and  smiled  complacently  at  his  witty 
allusion  to  the  impregnable  heights  of  society.  "I'm 
getting  pretty  well  up  the  hill  myself,"  he  continued, 
"but  we're  outclassed  when  it  comes  to  young  Rossi. 
Now  what  I  would  like  and  what  would  be  advanta 
geous  to  a  certain  law  firm  I  have  in  mind,  would  be 
to  see  our  client  marry  into  one  of  these  exclusive  old 
families.  With  such  a  wife  as  Miss  Livingstone,  for 
example,  he  wouldn't  care  about  being  '  much  poorer 
in  five  years  ' — eh  ?" 

"  Much  richer  would  be  about  the  way  of  it,  I  imag 
ine,"  observed  Mr.  Trent  with  a  sagacious  smile. 
Then  he  pursed  up  his  lips.  "I  think  we  could  get 
hold  of  young  Livingstone  by  means  of  that  Pan 
American  Rapid  Transit  matter,"  he  said  in  a  lowered 
tone.  "  He's  likely  to  get  a  pretty  hard  squeeze  unless 
somebody  gives  him  a  lift." 

Mr.  Smalley  nodded  his  gray  head  vigorously. 
"  We'll  do  it,"  he  said  briefly. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
The  Kingdoms  of  the  World 

IMMANUEL  ROSSI  certainly  could  not  have  told 
how  it  came  about;  but  in  the  course  of  a  month 
he  found  himself  in  a  new  world,  a  world  of  luxurious 
houses,  of  brilliant  assemblies,  of  clever  men,  of  lovely 
women.  This  singular  young  man  could  have 
counted  upon  the  fingers  of  one  hand  the  women 
whom  he  had  known  in  the  course  of  his  life,  begin 
ning  with  the  dimly  remembered  features  of  Elizabeth 
Winch. 

The  new  order  of  things  had  commenced  with  what 
seemed  a  casual  introduction  in  the  office  of  Trent  and 
Smalley  to  a  certain  agreeable  young  man  named 
Livingstone  who  at  once  claimed  Rossi  as  an  old 
acquaintance. 

"It  was  at  Cambridge,  don't  you  know  ?"  said  this 
young  gentleman  by  way  of  explanation;  and  he  re 
called  a  half-forgotten  class  reception  at  which  young 
Rossi  had  figured  modestly.  "  But  of  course  I  didn't 
know  then,"  was  his  somewhat  infelicitous  addendum. 

"Know  what?"  asked  Immanuel  Rossi  with  sim 
plicity. 

"Why — er,  that  you  were  one  of  us — a  New 
Yorker,  I  mean,"  said  the  other  with  caution  inspired 
by  a  warning  twitch  of  Mr.  Smalley's  grizzled  eye 
brows. 

186 


THE  KINGDOMS  OF  THE  WORLD     187 

"  I  am  not  a  New  Yorker,"  said  young  Rossi,  smi 
ling  pleasantly;  "but  I'm  glad  to  meet  you."  He 
made  some  inquiries  concerning  one  of  his  college 
professors,  which  led  quite  naturally  to  an  invitation 
on  the  part  of  the  other  to  lunch  at  the  club. 

An  invitation  to  dine  en  famille  with  this  quondam 
college  acquaintance  followed  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days,  and  a  month  after  that  young  Rossi's  modest 
mantelpiece  held  as  many  billets  of  invitation  as  that 
of  any  reigning  belle.  He  was  "in  society,"  and  the 
marvel  of  it  all  was  that  he  didn't  know  it.  The  open 
ing  of  that  ponderous  door  had  been  so  noiseless  that 
this  favored  neophyte  was  actually  unaware  that  it  had 
opened — or  indeed  that  it  existed  at  all! 

He  thought  Livingstone,  his  new  acquaintance,  was 
uncommonly  kind,  and  that  Livingstone's  friends  were 
uncommonly  kind  also.  They  were.  This  simple- 
minded  young  person  was  quite  right  in  his  opinion 
on  this  point. 

That  he  was  already  a  marriageable  parti  of  rare 
eligibility,  looked  fondly  and  hopefully  upon  by  the 
mothers  of  the  charmingly  pretty  and  clever  young 
women  he  was  constantly  meeting,  he  did  not  know. 
Of  the  fact  that  a  number  of  his  millions  were  tenta 
tively  invested  in  a  Newport  villa,  in  a  Fifth  Avenue 
palace  and  in  jewels,  horses  and  carriages  galore,  he 
was  also  unaware.  An  army  of  workmen  were  by 
this  time  engaged  in  building  a  huge  fireproof  tene 
ment  block  on  Hester  Street  planned  on  the  latest  lines 
of  philanthropic  research  and  including  every  possible 
attraction  to  impecunious  tenants  of  every  nationality. 

It  came  about  quite  naturally  in  the  course  of  time 
that  while  his  mornings  were  given  to  the  hopeful 


1 88  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

study  of  new  plans,  or  to  the  private  secretary  whom 
he  had  been  forced  to  call  to  his  assistance  in  the  dis 
posal  of  the  thousand  and  one  claims  of  the  world  at 
large  which  poured  in  upon  him  by  every  mail,  his 
afternoons  and  evenings  were  passed  with  his  new 
friends.  Messrs.  Trent  and  Smalley  beamed  with  quiet 
satisfaction  in  these  days.  Young  Rossi  was  at  a  loss 
to  understand  the  sudden  change  in  their  demeanor. 
He  concluded  in  his  innocence  that  these  worthy 
Christian  gentlemen  had  been  converted  to  his  view 
by  the  tangible  success  of  his  new  ventures. 

"It  is  quite  certain  that  the  rentals  will  return  fully 
six  per  cent,  on  the  investment,"  he  said  hopefully  to 
his  legal  advisers.  "I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  in 
vest  not  only  the  bulk  of  my  money  but  all  net  profits 
in  buying  up  and  rebuilding  bad  tenement  properties." 
He  further  confided  to  Mr.  Smalley  his  grand  ambition, 
which  embraced  the  actual  doing  away  with  the  slums 
in  every  great  city  of  America.  "I  cannot  hope  to  ac 
complish  this  great  task  by  myself,"  he  added  mod 
estly;  "but  of  late  I  have  thought — I  believe  that  I 
can  interest  other  capitalists  in  the  work." 

Mr.  Smalley  smiled  and  adjusted  his  finger-tips  after 
his  old  judicial  fashion.  "You  will,  I  do  not  doubt, 
succeed  in  interesting  large  amounts  of  capital  in  your 
project,"  he  said  enigmatically.  He  did  not  see  fit  to 
inform  his  client  that  plans  were  already  on  foot  to 
run  up  a  row  of  "skin  tenements,"  brave  with  brown 
stone  trimmings  and  glittering  brass  work,  just  across 
the  street  from  the  costly  Armitage  building.  "  Let 
him  try  his  experiment,"  quoth  the  sapient  Mr. 
Smalley,  in  the  privacy  of  his  sanctum.  "Our  philan 
thropic  young  friend  will  find  that  the  laboring  classes 


THE  KINGDOMS  OF  THE  WORLD     189 

prefer  the  old  style  of  living,  and  his  big  '  model  tene 
ment'  will  soon  be  the  laughing  stock  of  the  city.  It 
may  be  money  well  spent  in  the  end." 

Miss  Margaret  Livingstone  was  very  much  interested 
in  Immanuel  Rossi's  plans  to  ameliorate  the  condition 
of  the  toiling  millions.  She  assured  him  of  this  on 
more  than  one  occasion.  Miss  Livingstone  was  a 
flawless  product  of  American  civilization.  She  was 
handsome  of  course,  with  that  clear-cut,  finished  type 
of  beauty  which  associates  itself  particularly  with 
faultless  Parisian  gowns  and  equally  faultless  manners. 
It  was  impossible  to  imagine  Margaret  Livingstone's 
brilliant  eyes  as  filled  with  tears;  it  seemed  equally 
impossible  that  emotion  of  any  sort  could  unbecom 
ingly  ruffle  the  perfect  poise  of  her  personality. 

"I  have  just  finished  reading  the  cleverest,  most 
dreadful  story  of  life  in  the  London  slums,"  said  the 
young  woman;  this  when  Immanuel  Rossi  was  taking 
her  out  to  dinner  one  night.  "The  book  is  named- 
very  smartly  I  think,  after  that  old  English  ballad, 
'Sally  in  our  alley.'  I  quite  had  the  shivers  after  read 
ing  it.  Have  you  seen  it  ?" 

Mr.  Rossi  said  that  he  had  not.  He  added  that  he 
had  himself  seen  enough  of  life  in  the  slums  to  give 
him  perpetual  shivers  if  nothing  could  be  done  to 
help. 

Margaret  Livingstone  lifted  her  clear,  gray  eyes  to 
the  handsome  dark  face  upon  which  rested  a  transient 
cloud,  the  result  of  his  own  words.  ' '  You  think  all  this 
is  wrong,"  she  said  with  a  wave  of  her  graceful  hand 
toward  the  softly  lighted,  flower-decked  table  they 
were  approaching.  "Yes,  I  know  you  do;  I  have 
heard  all  about  your  devotion  to  the  wretchedly  poor; 


J90  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

t 

Mr.  Trent  knows  papa  very  well  indeed."  Miss  Liv 
ingstone  paused  while  the  two  seated  themselves  at 
table. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  have  thought,"  she  went  on,  lay 
ing  her  white  fingers  on  the  knot  of  violets  which 
nestled  in  her  corsage,  "what  the  result  would  be  if 
we  who  can  afford  these  so-called  luxuries — flowers, 
costly  gowns,  laces,  jewels  and  all  the  thousand  and 
one  extravagances,  if  you  will,  that  go  to  make  life 
beautiful  and  harmonious — if  we  should  give  it  all  up; 
would  not  a  wail  of  distress  rise  from  the  vast  army  of 
florists,  merchants,  jewelers  and  the  vaster  multitude 
which  stand  back  of  them  with  pick,  shovel  and  ma 
chinery  ?" 

Immanuel  Rossi  gazed  in  silence  at  the  beautiful  face 
of  the  speaker;  he  was  thinking  that  it  was  strange 
that  she  should  have  hit  squarely  upon  the  question 
which  had  been  vexing  him  that  very  day. 

Miss  Livingstone  flushed  prettily  under  the  prolonged 
scrutiny  of  the  brown  eyes.  "  I  suppose  we  are  all 
selfish  good-for-nothings,"  she  murmured;  "but  do 
not  look  at  me  so  severely,  please!  "  She  dropped  her 
own  eyes  till  the  long  curling  lashes  rested  upon  the 
soft  oval  of  her  cheek. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Mr.  Rossi,"  she  went  on 
in  a  low  voice,  "that  I  am  awfully  unhappy  thinking 
about  it  all  sometimes.  Yesterday  I  saw  such  a 
wretched,  white-faced  woman  carrying  a  huge  bundle; 
she  was  waiting  at  the  crossing  where  Winters  had 
pulled  up  almost  at  the  curb  to  avoid  a  tangle  of  cars 
and  trucks.  I  could  have  touched  the  poor  creature 
with  my  hand  as  I  sat  there.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  did, 
though  I  know  it  was  very  foolish,  but  I  just  couldn't 


THE  KINGDOMS  OF  THE  WORLD     191 

help  it;  I  took  off  my  violets  and  gave  them  to  her.  I 
suppose  a  five  dollar  bill  would  have  been  more  to  the 
purpose;  but  I  think  I  couldn't  have  offered  her 
money." 

The  young  man's  sensitive  face  flushed  with  pleas 
ure.  "  I  think  it  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  do,"  he  said, 
bending  toward  her.  "  It  is  love  that  they  want — love 
and  sympathy.  If  you —  He  stopped  short,  be 
coming  suddenly  conscious  of  the  interested  eyes  of 
Miss  Livingstone's  mother  who  sat  opposite.  Just 
what  those  watchful  eyes  conveyed  in  the  lightning 
flash  of  a  guarded  glance  he  could  not  have  told,  but  it 
sufficed  to  check  the  impulsive  words  that  lingered  on 
his  lips. 

Margaret  Livingstone  both  saw  and  understood. 
She  shrugged  her  white  shoulders  with  a  little  thrill 
of  displeasure.  "I  saw  the  outside  of  one  of  your 
wonderful  new  tenements  yesterday,"  she  said,  after 
a  pause.  "  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  take  me  over 
the  place  some  day.  I'm  something  of  an  architect 
myself,  you  know." 

"No,  I  did  not  know;  tell  me  about  it." 

"  All  the  girls  in  our  particular  coterie  selected  a  pro 
fession  one  day  last  winter — we  don't  want  to  be 
frivolous.  Maud  Ascott  is  a  lace-maker,  she  has 
learned  to  do  exquisite  work;  Sally  Merrill  over  there 
is  at  the  head  of  our  sewing  guild;  she  knows  how  to 
cut  and  fit  aprons  and  gowns  as  well  as  a  seamstress. 
1  hate  to  sew  and  that,  so — don't  laugh,  please;  papa 
and  Robert  aren't  done  making  sport  of  me  yet — I  said 
I  would  be  an  architect.  I  have  found  it  perfectly  fas 
cinating.  I  am  going  to  build  a  cottage  at  Long  Point 
this  summer.  Of  course  I  don't  expect  that  any  one 


192  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

will  ever  trust  me  with  anything  important;  but  I  can 
play  at  being  useful." 

The  shade  of  sadness  in  the  exquisitely  modulated 
tones  of  the  speaker  was  not  lost  on  the  impressionable 
young  man  at  her  side.  "  I  want  you  to  see  my  tene 
ments,"  he  said  eagerly.  "You  will  perhaps  be  able 
to  suggest  something  that  hasn't  been  thought  of  for 
the  comfort  of  the  women  and  children." 

"  But  this — this  building  of  yours — is  nearly  finished, 
is  it  not?"  asked  Miss  Livingstone  nonchalantly. 
"That  is  the  way  with  you  men,  you  pretend  to  ask 
our  advice,  then,  for  such  excellent  reasons,  you  are 
unable  to  follow  it." 

"  But  I  am  going  to  build  others,"  he  said  quickly; 
"  this  is  only  the  beginning  of  my  work.  I  assure  you 
that  any  suggestions  will  be  eagerly  accepted." 

An  inscrutable  expression,  half  satisfaction,  half 
vexation,  dawned  in  the  listener's  gray  eyes.  "Thank 
you,"  she  said  simply. 

She  was  wondering  if  she  really  wished  to  attempt 
the  management  of  this  very  singular  young  man.  He 
was  undeniably  handsome,  of  a  courtly  manner,  and 
enormously  rich.  Yes,  there  could  be  no  possible 
doubt  on  that  most  important  point.  But 

Immanuel,  misunderstanding  her  silence,  made  haste 
to  add,  "If  you  will  tell  me  what  day  you  would  like 
to  see  the  building,  I  will  arrange  the  matter  to  your 
liking." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Miss  Livingstone 
sweetly.  "I  shall  be  sure  to  remind  you  of  your 
promise." 

When  the  first  warm  days  of  early  summer  brought 
about  the  accustomed  exodus  of  fashionable  society 


THE  KINGDOMS  OF  THE  WORLD     193 

from  the  city,  young  Rossi  found  himself  thinking  one 
day  with  singular  intentness  of  the  empty  house  on 
the  back  hill-road.  As  he  stared  absently  out  of  the 
window  at  the  sombre  front  of  the  brownstone  dwell 
ing  opposite,  his  inner  vision  opened  to  the  prospect 
of  the  wide  blue  valley,  of  the  still  purity  of  the  lonely 
pine  woods,  of  the  gush  and  sparkle  of  the  untiring 
spring  by  the  old  red  barn.  Bird  voices — the  far 
yearning  cry  of  the  meadow-lark,  the  delicious  gurgle 
of  the  bluebird,  the  ecstatic  love  song  of  flitting  bobo 
links  sounded  in  his  dreaming  ears. 

"  The  wild  roses  will  just  be  coming  into  bloom," 
he  told  himself.  "And  the  bees  will  need  somebody 
to  hive  the  new  swarms."  A  homesick  longing  for  a 
sight  of  the  kind,  wise  face  of  his  guardian  came 
strongly  upon  him.  With  the  longing  mingled  a  sud 
den  doubt  of  his  present  course.  He  remembered  with 
shame  that  of  late  he  had  failed  to  keep  the  old-time 
tryst  with  his  invisible  Master.  Often  he  had  over 
slept  after  an  evening  with  his  new-found  friends; 
there  was  need  of  haste  in  the  shortened  mornings. 
So  many  letters,  so  many  men,  with  "important  busi 
ness  "  written  all  over  their  unsmiling  faces,  awaited 
him.  How  could  one  find  a  "silent  hour"  in  the 
midst  of  unending  tumult  ?  he  asked  himself  with  an 
impatient  shake  of  his  broad  shoulders.  "  I  will  get 
away  from  it  all,"  he  decided;  "and  see  if  I  can  get 
my  bearings  a  little  more  clearly.  Bronson  can  look 
after  things  in  town  for  a  time."  He  arose  with  a 
sigh  of  relief  and  was  on  the  point  of  communicating 
his  intention  to  his  secretary,  when  Mr.  Robert  Living 
stone  was  announced. 

"A  beastly  warm,  muggy  morning,"  drawled  that 


194  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

young  gentleman,  wiping  his  heated  brow.  "This 
heat  and  humidity  combined  is  something  insupportable, 
isn't  it  ?  I  say,  you  aren't  looking  very  fit,  my  dear 
young  friend;  and  that  leads  me  quite  naturally  to  the 
second  point  in  my  discourse,  so  old  Simpkins  would 
put  it.  Sis'  and  the  mater  have  departed  for  Newport 
this  morning,  and  your  humble  servant  sets  sail  on  The 
Gull  at  tide-water  this  afternoon.  You  are  going  with 
me.  Not  a  word  to  the  contrary,  if  you  please.  Your 
beloved  tenants  must  be  pretty  well  settled  by  this 
time  after  all  the  concessions  you've  made;  and  I  per 
ceive  that  your  philanthropic  nag  needs  a  cool  stable  if 
you  don't  want  him  to  drop  in  his  tracks  before  he 
has  crossed  the  line.  Come,  it's  too  deuced  hot  for 
eloquence;  you'll  have  to  turn  the  hose  on  me  if  I 
get  much  more  fervid  in  my  hospitality!  " 

"I  am  going  up  the  country  for  awhile,"  said  young 
Rossi,  with  unsmiling  gravity. 

"What  country?" 

"  Up  north,"  replied  the  other  evasively,  as  he 
studied  the  toe  of  his  boot.  "  1  have  a  little  place  up 
there;  a — farm,  I  thought " 

"  Good  Lord!  man,  don't  tell  me  that  you're  going 
into  fancy  farming  on  top  of  all  the  rest!  "  groaned  Liv 
ingstone,  comic  despair  pictured  on  his  round,  good- 
natured  face.  "We'll  have  you  on  the  town  yet,  see 
if  we  don't.  By  the  way,  Sis'  intrusted  me  with  a 
communication  for  your  hand;  I  had  nearly  forgotten 
it,  just  as  she  predicted." 

Immanuel's  face  flushed  eagerly  as  he  opened  the 
envelope  with  a  muttered  apology,  whereat  his  observ 
ant  visitor  hid  a  smile  in  the  depths  of  his  pocket- 
handkerchief. 


THE  KINGDOMS  OF  THE  WORLD     195 

The  words  of  the  communication  in  question  were 
brief  but  cogent.  "Dear  Mr.  Rossi  (he  read)  I  have 
just  heard  of  the  most  wonderful  idea  for  a  tenement 
block.  You  doubtless  know  something  of  Sir  Joseph 
Barren,  the  distinguished  architect  who  planned  the 
famous  Victoria  Square  in  Liverpool.  He  is  stopping 
at  a  neighbor's  for  a  few  days.  I  hope  you  will  let 
Robert  persuade  you  to  join  him  this  afternoon,  that 
you  may  have  an  opportunity  of  meeting  Sir  Joseph, 
and  listening  to  his  most  interesting  plans,  which  I  un 
fortunately  am  too  stupid  to  fully  appreciate.  Mother 
joins  with  me  in  the  hope  that  you  will  come.  Sin 
cerely,  Margaret  Livingstone." 

"Well,"  said  Robert  Livingstone  lazily;  "did  the 
enclosed  contain  a  clincher  ?  " 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  cried  young  Rossi,  with  an 
enthusiasm  which  caused  the  other  to  wonder  at  his 
simplicity. 


CHAPTER  XX 
Two  Voices 

DURING  his  drive  to  the  dock  that  afternoon, 
Immanuel  Rossi  found  himself  very  much  oc 
cupied  with  a  spirited  discussion  which  he  seemed 
compelled  to  carry  on  with  some  unseen  but  persistent 
being,  who  strongly  disapproved  of  his  decision. 
Young  Rossi  did  not  stop  to  question  himsdf  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  intelligence  which  thus  interested  itself 
in  his  personal  affairs.  Who  of  us  does  ?  Call  it  what 
we  will — conscience,  intuition,  the  subliminal  self,  or 
one  from  out  the  "  cloud  of  witnesses  "  who  loves  us — 
we  have  all  heard  the  voices.  This  particular  debate 
if  reported  would  run  something  as  follows: 

"  Why  did  you  not  stand  by  your  determination  to 
go  to  the  farm  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  go  to  the  farm;  there  is  nothing  for 
me  to  do  there." 

"  Yes,  there  is  something  there  for  you  to  do. 
You  are  on  the  wrong  road.  You  must  get  back  to 
your  Master." 

"  But  I  am  going  to  Newport  especially  to  see  Sir 
Joseph  Barren;  I  wish  to  consult  him  about  the  Pearl 
Street  building." 

"You  are  going  to  Newport  to  see  Miss  Margaret 
Livingstone." 

196 


TWO  VOICES  197 

"Well,  what  if  I  am;  she  is  very  much  interested  in 
my  work." 

"  She  is  very  handsome;  but  what  has  she  done  for 
the  poor?" 

'•  I — don't  know  exactly:  she  gave  her  violets  to  that 
poor  woman,  for  one  thing." 

"  Yes,  and  stopped  at  the  next  florist's  for  a  fresher 
bunch." 

"I  don't  believe  it;  but  if  she  did  she  helped  the 
florist  that  much." 

"You  are  seeing  things  through  the  wrong  pair  of 
eyes.  Stop  and  telephone  young  Livingstone  that  you 
cannot  go  with  him." 

"No,  I  will  not.     I  am  going." 

This  seemed  to  close  the  matter;  and  the  young  man 
feeling  vaguely  sore  and  discomfited  presently  joined 
his  friend  with  an  eagerness  which  was  again  the 
occasion  of  a  quiet  stare  and  a  suppressed  smile  of 
amusement.  ''Sis'  has  bagged  her  game  all  right,  1 
reckon,"  was  Livingtone's  mental  comment  on  the  un 
wonted  tone  and  manner  of  his  guest. 

There  was  enough  of  excitement  in  the. process  of 
going  on  board  and  the  subsequent  getting  under  way 
to  silence  unpleasant  voices.  Immanuel  Rossi  leaned 
back  in  his  cushioned  chair  on  the  white  deck  of  the 
yacht  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Indeed  he  presently  found 
himself  \vondering  how  he  could  have  conceived  of  such 
folly  as  a  sojourn  in  the  lonely  little  hut  on  the  back 
hill-road.  He  definitely  labeled  it  "  hut,"  smiling  with 
kindly  tolerance  at  its  unpainted,  weather-beaten  walls, 
its  unpruned  lilacs  and  its  environing  tangle  of  may 
weed,  as  he  drew  in  deep  breaths  of  the  salt  air,  and 
bared  his  hot  forehead  to  the  keen  wind  which  was 


198  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

tossing  up  a  bevy  of  sparkling  white-caps  on  the  blue 
waters  of  the  Sound. 

"You  look  like  another  man  already,"  observed  his 
host  genially,  as  he  dropped  into  a  chair  at  his  side. 
"There's  nothing  like  sea  air  for  sweeping  the  cobwebs 
from  a  man's  brain." 

Rossi  agreed  with  him  unqualifiedly.  He  even  added 
to  the  statement  by  declaring  that  sea  air  was  vastly 
better  than  country  air. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Livingstone 
lazily;  "  I'm  awfully  fond  of  the  country  myself.  We 
must  have  you  up  in  the  Berkshires  with  us  this  fall; 
it's  simply  immense  in  October."  After  a  pause,  he 
added  with  studied  indifference,  "  Did  you  tell  me  your 
place  was  up  that  way  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  other  stiffly.  "But — I  may  buy  a 
place  there  before  long."  He  said  this  with  a  curiously 
defiant  air. 

"  1  don't  see  why  you  should  not,  old  man,"  smiled 
Livingstone.  "  I'll  show  you  a  snug  little  cottage  at 
Newport  that's  in  the  market  just  now  for  a  song,  if 
you're  interested  in  real  estate." 

"I  am  interested  in  real  estate,"  said  young  Rossi 
determinedly.  After  a  little  he  burst  out,  "Where 
did  you  get  this  boat,  Livingstone  ?  It's  a  perfect 
beauty;  I  think,  I  believe  — 

"  It  is  one  of  old  HerreshofT's  build,"  replied  his  host, 
concealing  his  astonishment  under  an  excessive  devo 
tion  to  his  cigarette.  "  If  I  were  you  though,  I  believe 
I'd  have  a  steam  yacht;  they  are  more  useful.  If  you 
want  to  take  a  run  to  the  other  side  for  example,  you 
can  go  in  your  own  boat.  I  haven't  any  use  for  the 
liners;  one  might  as  well  be  on  a  Brooklyn  ferry — 


TWO  VOICES  199 

there's  no  privacy.  The  Jacksons  invited  Sis'  to  go 
abroad  with  them  this  summer;  but  she  had  vowed 
she  would  never  sail  again  on  a  liner.  It's  so  beastly 
common,  don't  you  know." 

Immanuel  Rossi  was  deep  in  another  discussion 
with  that  troublesome  voice.  He  silenced  it  this  time 
by  saying,  "But  I  tell  you  I  can  do  both;  I  have 
enough.  There's  one  big  block  finished  and  another 
one  going  up.  I've  spent  money  like  water;  and 
there's  no  satisfying  the  people;  they  want  the  earth. 
But  I'll  go  on  with  it;  I  mean  to." 

Aloud  he  remarked  on  the  fact  that  five  of  his 
tenants  had  left  that  morning  to  go  into  the  fair  but 
specious  apartments  just  across  the  street  from  his 
mammoth  and  expensive  building.  "I've  already 
made  the  rents  so  low  that  they  return  but  three  and  a 
half  per  cent.,"  he  said  with  some  show  of  irritation; 
"to  say  nothing  of  a  band  concert  in  the  central  court 
every  week,  a  swimming  bath,  a  banking  and  loan 
office,  and  any  number  of  other  things;  I've  spared 
nothing." 

Livingstone  laughed  outright  at  the  expression  on  his 
guest's  dark  face.  "  You're  learning  your  little'a-b  abs' 
all  right,"  he  said  easily.  "I  could  have  told  you  all 
this  and  more  six  months  ago;  but  I  saw  you  didn't 
want  to  hear,  so  I  let  you  alone.  You  ought  to  talk 
with  Green — Whitey  Green  we  call  him;  you've  met 

him  at  the  club .  Well,  Whitey  got  it  into  his  fat 

head  one  day  that  he'd  be  a  philanthropist;  he  vowed  it 
was  a  dashed  shame  to  grind  the  face  of  the  poor  un 
der  the  iron  heel  of  capital,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
He  gleaned  his  ideas  from  the  yellow  dailies  with  a  lot 
of  other  rot  about  the  awful  wicked  doings  of  the 


200  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

multi-millionaire.  Now  Whitey's  defunct  papa  owned 
a  couple  of  blocks  of  the  rankest  tenements  you  ever 
laid  your  eyes  on.  They  actually  smelled  to  heaven; 
I  went  over  them  one  day  with  Whitey,  and  saw 
some  rummy  sights,  I  can  tell  you.  Our  kind  young 
friend  went  to  work  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
years;  pulled  down  the  old  barracks  and  in  so  doing 
let  loose  on  a  suffering  community  something  like 
thirty  billions  of  cockroaches  and  an  equal  number 
of  other  unnamable  bugs — I  saw  them  myself  walk 
ing  mournfully  up  Broadway  looking  for  quarters." 
Livingstone  paused  to  light  another  cigarette,  and 
Immanuel  filled  in  the  silence  with  an  uneasy  laugh. 

"  The  Green  tenements  were  simply  immense  when 
they  were  finished,"  continued  Livingstone  with  a 
grim  smile;  "there  were  stationary  tubs,  sanitary 
plumbing,  bath-rooms,  and  all  the  modern  improve 
ments.  Whitey  was  charmed;  he  couldn't  talk  about 
anything  else,  and  nearly  bored  his  unfortunate  family 
into  untimely  graves.  At  the  club  we  finally  got  to 
the  point  of  breaking  into  a  groan  at  the  word  sanitary 
from  Whitey's  mouth.  It  was  all  finished  in  course  of 
time,  and  the  toiling  masses  took  possession,  bag, 
baggage  and  bedbugs;  Whitey  said  he  thought  his 
tenants  ought  to  be  grateful  to  him  for  his  forethought 
and  interest  in  them.  You  can  bet  they  were.  In 
less  than  three  months  he  was  taking  out  the  rem 
nants  of  his  improvements.  His  intelligent  tenants 
had  found  the  superfluous  woodwork  first-class  ma 
terial  for  kindling;  pipes  and  faucets  were  proved 
to  possess  a  spot-cash  value  at  the  junk  shop;  the 
stationary  tubs  and  baths  were  excellently  adapted  for 
general  garbage  receptacles.  Oh,  it  was  a  three-ring 


TWO  VOICES  201 

circus  to  see  poor  Whitey  in  those  sad  days!  We 
had  respect  for  his  grief  though,  and  didn't  lacerate 
his  wounded  sensibilities  by  unkind  recriminations. 
But  if  you  want  to  know  just  the  sum  total  of 
tenement-house  depravity,  draw  Whitey  Green  into 
a  conversation  on  the  subject." 

Immanuel  Rossi  was  staring  fixedly  at  the  green 
shore;  he  did  not  reply. 

Livingstone  eyed  his  troubled  face  curiously.  "Of 
course  Whitey  was  guilty  of  one  big  blunder  which 
you  haven't  made,"  he  observed  at  length.  "He 
reckoned  on  the  gratitude  and  intelligence  of  his  ten 
ants  a  trifle  too  confidently,  and  didn't  have  a  com 
petent  janitor  in  charge.  I'm  told  your  system  is 
perfect." 

"It's  a  terrible  question  though,"  said  Immanuel, 
half  to  himself.  He  scowled  as  he  said  it  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders  with  a  slight  shiver. 

"Come  inside  awhile,  old  fellow,  and  we'll  have  a 
mouthful  to  eat,"  cried  his  host,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  It's  a  question  which  you  and  I  are  not  called  upon 
to  settle  at  the  present  moment,  thank  heaven! " 

Margaret  Livingstone,  charming  as  a  wood-nymph 
in  an  expensively  simple  gown  of  white  relieved  with 
touches  of  pale  green,  was  the  first  to  greet  the  young 
men  on  their  arrival.  Her  slim  hand,  cool  and  soft 
like  a  flower,  lingered  for  just  an  instant  in  Immanuel's 
while  she  murmured,  "Behold  a  penitent,  Mr.  Rossi; 
I  have  such  a  disappointment  in  store  for  you  that  I 
hardly  know  how  to  tell  it." 

Young  Rossi  looked  down  into  the  gray  eyes  up 
lifted  to  his  and  said  so  nearly  what  any  other  of  the 
gilded  youth  of  her  acquaintance  might  have  said,  that 


202  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

the  young  lady  was  almost  shaken  from  her  admirable 
poise  for  an  instant.  "I  am  at  this  moment  far  out 
of  the  reach  of  any  disappointment  whatever,  Miss 
Livingstone." 

She  noticed  that  his  dress  was  beyond  criticism,  and 
that  his  manner  was  quietly  masterful. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  say  that,  Mr.  Rossi," 
she  said  with  a  little  laugh.  "  But  when  I  tell  you  that 
Sir  Joseph  Barron  was  recalled  to  England  by  an 
urgent  telegram  this  very  day,  why "  The  brill 
iant  eyes  were  shadowed  with  wistfulness.  "Of 
course,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little  impulsive  gesture 
like  that  of  a  troubled  child,  "I  should  never  have 
thought  of  asking  you  to  waste  your  precious  time  on 
us;  I  thought — I  believed  that  you  would  be  glad  to 
meet  so  eminent  an  authority  on  the  tenement  ques 
tion  as  Sir  Joseph." 

The  young  man  smiled  down  at  her.  "  What  will 
you  think  of  me  if  I  tell  you  that  I  am  content  to  for 
get  the  tenements  for  awhile?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice.  "There  are  other  things — a  man  must  live  his 
own  life." 

He  said  the  last  words  in  the  defiant  tone  which 
Livingstone  had  remarked  on  board  the  Gull. 

"Do  give  the  poor  fellow  a  rest  on  the  slums,  Sis'," 
advised  that  young  gentleman  fraternally.  "I  know 
you're  considerable  of  a  crank  on  the  subject;  but  one 
can't  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  tenements  every  day  in  the 
year,  don't  you  know.  Short  periods  of  relaxation  are 
necessary  to  health  and  spirits."  He  winked  openly 
at  his  sister  at  the  conclusion  of  this  speech,  with  a 
laugh  which  to  Immanuel  seemed  apropos  of  nothing. 

"How  foolish  you  are,  dear  Robert,"  cooed  Miss 


TWO  VOICES  203 

Livingstone.  "  I  know  I  am  tiresome  about  my  poor 
people  sometimes,  but  Mr.  Rossi  is  very  kind  and 
sympathetic." 

"Mr.  Rossi  wants  to  go  over  the  Mills-Satterlee 
place  to-morrow,"  said  Livingstone,  "so  don't  distract 
his  mind  from  a  gilt-edged  real  estate  investment  with 
any  pathetic  yarns  about  consumptive  sewing-girls." 

"Are  you  really  going  to  buy  that  place,  Mr. 
Rossi?"  she  asked,  with  a  surprise  which  was  no  less 
charming  because  entirely  unaffected.  "  It  is  quite  the 
prettiest  cottage  in  Newport,  I  think." 

She  blushed  becomingly  after  this  little  burst  of 
enthusiasm,  and  withdrew  to  a  position  behind  mam 
ma's  chair,  which  was  now  occupied  by  that  most 
gracious  of  grande  dames. 

No  guarded  or  questioning  glances  from  the  mater 
nal  eyes  disturbed  Immanuel  Rossi  on  this  occasion. 
He  was  made  to  feel  in  a  thousand  delicate  ways  that 
he  was  at  home.  And  to  be  at  home  in  a  Newport 
cottage  is  a  pleasant  experience. 

Young  Rossi  found  it  increasingly  so  as  the  days 
flew  by.  He  looked  over  the  Mills-Satterlee  property, 
and  after  an  unpleasant  little  confab  with  that  teasing 
voice,  which  clamored  loudly  against  his  decision, 
wrote  to  his  lawyers  instructing  them  to  purchase 
the  place  for  him.  Mr.  Smalley  replied  by  return  of 
post,  congratulating  his  client  on  seizing  so  favorable 
an  opportunity  of  securing  a  valuable  investment.  He 
added  that  all  realty  was  temporarily  depressed,  and 
named  a  most  desirable  city  residence  upon  which  he 
strongly  advised  him  to  secure  an  option  without 
delay. 

Young  Rossi  read  this  letter  on  the  shaded  breeze- 


204  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

swept  veranda  of  the  Livingstone  cottage  one  morn 
ing;  then  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  strolled  across 
the  lawn  to  the  spot  where  Margaret  Livingstone  in 
pink  and  white  gingham  and  a  fetching  garden  hat 
was  clipping  the  half  blown  roses  from  a  hedge  of 
hybrid  perpetuals.  Her  basket  was  heaped  with  the 
flowers,  and  her  face,  as  glowing  and  pure  in  tint  as 
the  roses,  was  lifted  to  his  with  a  bright  smile  of  wel 
come  as  he  approached. 

"  Mayn't  I  hold  the  basket?"  he  asked;  "  or  shall  I 
cut  the  roses  ?  " 

"I  have  enough,  I  think,"  replied  the  young  lady. 
"I  am  going  to  arrange  them  in  the  summer-house; 
you  shall  come  and  help,  if  you  like." 

An  array  of  bowls  and  vases  filled  with  water 
awaited  them  in  the  little  octagonal  rustic  building, 
which  commanded  a  charming  view  of  the  sea  through 
its  vine-wreathed  windows,  thrown  wide  this  morn 
ing  to  admit  the  fresh  ocean  breeze. 

"I  have  bought  the  Mills-Satterlee  cottage,"  said  the 
young  man  without  preamble — this  when  the  two 
were  seated  at  the  table. 

"I  must  congratulate  you,"  replied  Miss  Living 
stone,  selecting  with  care  three  or  four  magnificent 
crimson  roses  and  placing  them  in  a  slender  cut-glass 
vase. 

"That  is,  I  have  told  my  lawyers  to  secure  it  for 
me,"  explained  young  Rossi.  "They  are  obstinate 
fellows  sometimes — lawyers,  I  mean.  I've  had  lots  of 
fights  with  mine  already." 

Miss  Livingstone  smiled  by  way  of  reply;  she  was 
fully  aware  of  the  subject  of  the  disputes  in  question. 

"It  was  over  the  tenements,"  he  went  on,  watching 


TWO  VOICES  205 

the  slim  taper  fingers  as  deliciously  white  and  pink  as 
the  buds  they  were  coaxing  into  a  nest  of  cool  green 
leaves.  "I've  a  lot  of  tenements,  you  know;  and 
some  of  them  are  shameful  dens;  uncle  fixed  them  up 
as  much  as  he  could,  but  they're  slums  yet!  " 

"Do  the  buildings  make  the  slums;  or  do  the  peo 
ple  who  live  in  them  ?"  asked  Miss  Livingstone,  raising 
her  eyebrows.  "It  seems  tome  that  it  is  almost  as 
impossible  to  make  those  places  permanently  better  as 
it  would  be  to  introduce  a  new  style  of  sanitary  den 
for  wild  beasts.  Every  individual  exudes  his  own  en 
vironment,  you  know,  just  as  the  little  woolly  cater 
pillar  on  the  leaf  does. — That's  Emerson  of  course;  I'm 
not.  clever  enough  to  have  said  it.  But  we  are  what 
we  make  ourselves,  are  we  not?  " 

Immanuel,  looking  earnestly  at  the  flower-like  face 
opposite  him,  was  at  once  led  to  think  with  a  curious 
thrill  of  the  fair  white  soul  within  the  angelic  mould. 

"We  certainly  are,"  he  said  musingly.  "'As  a 
man  thinketh  in  his  heart  so  is  he.' " 

Something  in  the  familiar  words  brought  so  sudden 
a  cloud  over  the  expressive  face  of  the  speaker,  that 
Margaret  Livingstone  went  on  with  a  little  tremor  in 
her  voice.  "Must  we,  because  other  people  are  reap 
ing  horrible  crops  of  crime  and  suffering — from  their 
own  sowing,  mind — must  we  refuse  the  rich  harvest 
of  our  own  wiser  choices  ?  " 

If  the  fair  Margaret  had  spent  some  irksome  hours 
in  studying  these  ecclesiastical  phrases  which  came 
so  trippingly  from  her  well-cut  lips,  Immanuel  Rossi 
was  not  the  less  impressed  by  them.  "How  clearly 
you  put  it!"  he  cried  admiringly.  "You  must  have 
thought  deeply  on  these  subjects." 


206  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Miss  Livingstone's  curling  lashes  drooped.  "We 
women  have  so  little  share  in  the  world's  work,"  she 
murmured,  and  raised  her  white  lids  to  display  a 
sparkling  tear  in  each  gray  eye.  "We  can  only  think 
and — suffer! " 

Immanuel  Rossi  leaned  across  the  rose-strewn  table, 
his  dark  face  alight  with  unmistakable  emotion. 
"Miss  Livingstone,"  he  began,  "I  — 

"Hello!  Here  you  are  at  last,"  exclaimed  a  drawl 
ing  voice  at  the  window,  and  Robert  Livingstone's 
sleek  head  was  thrust  through  the  breezy  opening. 
"I've  a  telegram  for  you,  Rossi;  been  looking  the 
place  over  to  find  you." 

Immanuel  read  the  message  without  ceremony. 
"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  rising,  "more  sorry  than  I  can 
tell  you,  but  I  must  go  in  to  the  city  at  once." 

"No  bad  news,  I  hope,"  said  Livingstone  civilly. 

"No — and  yes,"  said  the  other.  "My  secretary 
wishes  to  see  me  at  once  about  some  matters  I  left  in 
his  hands." 

"How  tiresome!"  cried  Miss  Livingstone,  a  trifle 
sharply.  Then  she  turned  to  her  guest  with  a  slow, 
sweet  smile.  "  But  you  will  return  ?  " 

"I  shall  return — certainly;  that  is,  if  you  wish  to 
have  me.  I  fear  I've  made  an  unconscionably  long 
visit  already."  The  young  man's  manner  was  some 
what  perturbed,  and  he  spoke  the  words  almost  me 
chanically. 

"I  fancy  you  would  rather  have  had  me  make  my 
appearance  armed  with  a  landing-net  than  with  that 
telegram — eh,  Sis'?"  laughed  Livingstone  in  his 
sister's  ear,  as  their  guest  hurried  away  across  the 
lawn. 


TWO  VOICES  207 

"Don't  be  any  more  vulgar  than  you  can  help, 
Robert,"  said  the  young  lady  coldly. 

"Of  course  you  are  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  bud 
any  longer,  with  six  seasons  to  your  account;  but 
luckily  our  singular  young  friend  yonder  is  not  aware 
of  the  fact." 

"Robert,  I  just  hate  you  sometimes! "  cried  Miss 
Livingstone,  with  an  unbecoming  flush  of  anger. 

"Tut — tut!  my  child,  you  mustn't  forget  your  role 
so  easily,"  drawled  Livingstone.  "She's  a  female 
philanthropist  just  at  present,  that's  what  little  Mar 
garet  is;  and  she  is  filled  to  running  over  with  the 
sweetest  sympathy  and  affection  for  all  mankind. 
Surely  her  erring  brother  ought  to  come  in  for  a 
share  of  it." 

Miss  Livingstone's  sole  answer  consisted  in  a  vanish 
ing  switch  of  pink  and  white  drapery  as  she  darted 
up-stairs  and  into  her  own  room. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
Called  Back 

WHEN  Immanuel  Rossi  reached  New  York  at  the 
close  of  a  sweltering  June  day  he  betook  him 
self  at  once  to  the  most  expensive  hotel  he  knew  and 
proceeded  to  dress  and  dine  with  deliberation.  After 
ward  he  dispatched  a  messenger  with  a  summons  to 
his  private  secretary,  Richard  Bronson. 

That  young  gentleman  was  shortly  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  his  employer.  "You  sent  forme,  sir?" 
he  said  with  an  air  of  surprise. 

"Of  course;  I  wished  to  ask  an  explanation  of  this 
singular  telegram  of  yours,"  replied  Immanuel  curtly. 
The  mystified  and  troubled  gaze  of  the  other  impressed 
him  most  disagreeably.  It  was  almost  insolent,  he 
told  himself. 

"Why,  you  said—  "  stammered  the  private  secre 
tary,  with  an  uncomfortable  access  of  color.  "You 
told  me  that  you  wished  to  be  summoned  at  once 
should  anything  of  moment  arise  in  connection  with 
any  of  the  tenements.  I  am  sorry  if  it  inconvenienced 
you,  sir;  but  — 

"Why  did  you  not  write?"  demanded  the  other. 

"  You — you  mentioned  telegraphing,  I  believe,  sir," 
said  young  Bronson.  "  I 

"  What  is  it  all  about  anyway  ?  "  broke  in  Immanuel. 
He  was  angry;  and  what  was  worse  he  was  angry  at 

208 


CALLED  BACK  209 

himself  for  being  angry.  Why  had  he  not  remained 
in  Newport  and  demanded  an  explanation  by  wire. 
This  stammering,  blushing  young  fellow  was  not  fit 
to  be  his  deputy.  He  had  taken  him  from  the  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association,  on  the  recommendation 
of  Phipps,  the  secretary.  Phipps  was  well  enough  in 
his  place,  but  he,  Immanuel,  had  begun  to  see  things 
from  a  different  standpoint. 

"From  whose  standpoint  do  you  look?"  suddenly 
demanded  that  teasing  voice  again.  It  had  been  silent 
for  days,  but  now  it  spoke  with  a  louder,  more  in 
sistent  note  than  ever. 

Young  Bronson  was  talking  now,  eagerly,  rapidly. 
Immanuel  forced  himself  to  listen.  "It  is  the  block 
on  Baxter  Street.  I  could  not  write  all;  and  1  thought 
you  would  wish  to  see — to  understand.  There  are 
thirteen  hundred  tenants,  you  remember;  and  yester 
day  Biggs — Dr.  Biggs  of  the  State  board  of  health 
called  to  see  you.  He  says  it  ought  to  come  down  at 
once.  It  has  become  thoroughly  infected  with  tuber 
culosis." 

"With  tuberculosis?"  repeated  Immanuel  dully. 
"But  how  am  I  going  to  help  it?  It  is  the  people; 
they  are  filthy.  It  is  they  who  infect  the  buildings. 
Besides  I  cannot  afford  to  build  another  block  this 
year." 

"From  whose  standpoint  are  you  looking?"  again 
demanded  the  inexorable  voice. 

"Two  women  died  there  last  week,"  went  on  the 
secretary  in  a  low  voice.  "  Many  of  the  children  have 
tuberculous  swellings  in  their  throats.  There  have 
been  more  than  two  hundred  fatal  cases  in  that  block 
alone  in  four  years." 


210  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"  I  will  consult  my  lawyers  with  regard  to  the 
matter,"  said  Immanuel  coldly.  "  There  is  other  prop 
erty "  He  stopped  short;  what  business  was  it 

of  Bronson's  ?  "You  may  go  now,"  he  concluded 
sharply.  "And  stay,  do  not  telegraph  me  hereafter 
when  you  can  as  well  write.  1  shall  probably  return 
to  Newport  to-morrow." 

"But  Dr.  Biggs  wished  particularly  to  see  you,  sir," 
ventured  young  Bronson,  fixing  his  aggrieved  and 
astonished  eyes  on  his  employer's  hardening  face. 
"  He  was  so  pleased  with  the  Hester  Street  building. 
He  has  a  very  practical  suggestion  to " 

"  But  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  return  to  New 
port  to-morrow,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Immanuel, 
endeavoring  to  conceal  his  sudden  dislike  for  this  very 
gauche  young  man  who  ventured  to  show  his  disap 
proval  so  openly.  "You  may  tell  Dr.  Biggs  that  I  will 
attend  to  the  Baxter  Street  block  at  my  earliest  conve 
nience.  There  might  be  some  whitewashing  done 
there Yes,  you  may  order  it  done  at  once." 

"There  was  another  matter,  sir." 

"It  will  have  to  wait,  I  fancy;  I  have  an  engage 
ment  this  evening.  You  are  always  at  liberty,  re 
member,  to  turn  over  puzzling  cases  to  Mr.  Smalley; 
he  will  look  to  them." 

He  watched  the  door  close  on  the  retreating  form  of 
Bronson  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  What  a  tiresome  chap 
he  is,"  he  said  aloud.  "  I  must  get  rid  of  him  at  once." 

"There  are  some  other  things  to  be  gotten  rid 
of  first,"  remarked  the  voice.  The  young  millionaire 
twisted  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "I  might  as  well 
have  it  out  first  as  last,"  he  said  angrily.  "I  will 
not  be  tormented  this  way  always!" 


CALLED  BACK  211 

"No,  you  will  not,"  agreed  the  voice  solemnly. 

"What  then?" 

"  What  then  ?  "  echoed  the  voice. 

"I  shall  do  as  other  people  do,  enjoy  myself  and 
spend  my  money  as  I  like.  What  business  is  it  of 
mine  that  these  wretched  creatures  are  reaping  the 
consequences  of  their  own  wickedness  ?" 

"Be  not  deceived,  God  is  not  mocked;  whatsoever 
a  man  soweth  that  shall  he  also  reap,"  quoted  the 
voice. 

"That  is  just  what  I  was  saying,"  cried  Immanuel 
triumphantly;  "  let  them  take  their  medicine." 

The  -voice  was  silent.  Immanuel  smiled.  Then  he 
leaned  forward  in  his  chair.  It  was  as  though  a  cur 
tain  had  been  suddenly  rolled  up  before  his  eyes — the 
Godlike  eyes  of  the  soul,  which  see  past,  present  and 
future.  This  was  past — long  past.  The  scene  was  a 
low-ceiled  room,  sparsely  furnished  but  clean.  A 
young  woman  stood  by  the  door,  her  head  bent  as 
though  she  was  listening  intently  for  some  distant 
sound.  She  was  beautiful,  but  her  face  wore  a  piteous 
look  of  mingled  hope  and  despair;  but  hope  was 
dying  and  despair  terribly  alive.  She  started  back 
with  a  faint  cry  at  sound  of  a  step  outside  the  broken 
door. 

"  It's  only  me,  me  dear;  no,  there  ain't  no  letter,  but 
maybe  it'll  come  in  the  morn."  The  speaker,  a  big- 
boned  Irish  woman,  was  patting  the  sobbing  figure  of 
the  younger  woman  on  the  shoulder. 

When  had  he  heard  those  voices  ?  How  was  it  that 
he  recognized  with  a  sickening  shock  the  exquisite, 
woebegone  face  of  the  young  woman  ?  "My  God!" 
he  groaned,  "it  is  my  mother!  I — I  had  forgotten!" 


212  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"It  is  well  to  remember,"  said  the  voice. 

He  saw  the  same  figure  again,  but  dimly  through 
the  swirling  flakes  of  a  cruel  storm.  On  and  on  he 
followed  it,  through  the  storm  and  the  night.  He  saw 
it  fall  and  rise  again,  and  fall.  It  was  creeping  now 
like  some  wounded  animal.  There  was  a  door.  It 
yielded  to  the  feeble  touch.  And  now  Immanuel 
Rossi  knew  the  place  well  enough. 

"It  is  Winches'  barn,"  he  whispered.  Elizabeth's 
kindly  face  looked  out  of  the  darkness;  her  eyes 
beamed  upon  him  as  in  the  old  days.  "  'Manuel,"  she 
said  tremulously,  "I'm  yer  mother  as  fur's  lovin'  you  's 
concerned;  but  you've  got  another  mother  'at  loves 
you  jest  as  much  as  I  do,  an'  more;  she's  with  you  all 
the  while,  times  'at  I  can't  be." 

"Are  they  not  all  ministering  spirits  sent  forth  to 
minister?"  asked  the  -voice. 

Immanuel  hid  his  face  in  his  hands;  but  the  eyes  of 
his  soul  still  saw,  and  the  ears  of  his  soul  heard.  He 
saw  himself  sitting  alone  on  the  haymow,  the  dusty 
sunshine  shedding  a  halo  of  golden  light  about  the 
lonely  little  figure.  Once  more  he  listened  to  The 
Presence  which  abides  in  every  human  soul,  unchanged 
and  unchanging  from  infancy  to  old  age — the  great  / 
Am. 

He  seemed  now  to  hear  the  words  of  the  Book,  read 
in  a  voice  which  had  lately  passed  into  the  silence. 
"  What  agreement  hath  the  temple  of  God  with  idols  ? 
Ye  are  the  temple  of  the  living  God;  for  God  hath 
said,  I  will  dwell  in  them,  and  will  walk  in  them,  and 
I  will  be  their  God,  and  they  shall  be  my  people. 
Wherefore  come  out  from  among  them,  and  be  ye 
separate,  saith  the  Lord,  and  touch  not  the  unclean 


CALLED  BACK  213 

thing,  and  I  will  receive  you,  and  will  be  a  father  unto 
you,  and  ye  shall  be  my  sons  and  daughters,  saith  the 
Lord  Almighty." 

It  was  not  yet  daylight  when  young  Richard  Bron- 
son  was  awakened  from  an  uneasy  dream  to  find  his 
employer  standing  at  his  bedside.  He  rubbed  his 
eyes  with  a  fresh  access  of  amazement  when  he  per 
ceived  that  Immanuel  still  wore  the  evening  clothes  in 
which  he  had  last  seen  him. 

"  Has — has  anything  happened  ?"  he  inquired  anx 
iously. 

"Yes,"  said  Immanuel;  "something  has  happened. 
I  was  out  of  the  way  when  you  saw  me  last  night;  I 
have  gotten  back  by  the  grace  of  God.  On  the  table 
outside  you  will  find  an  order  for  Thomson.  The 
Baxter  Street  block  must  be  vacated  and  pulled  down 
at  once.  Thomson  will  see  to  it.  I  am  going  away; 
my  address  is  with  the  order." 

He  had  disappeared  before  the  mists  of  sleep  were 
fairly  scattered  from  young  Bronson's  eyes. 

At  noon  that  same  day  a  dusty  traveler  paused  be 
side  the  gurgling  drip  and  sparkle  of  the  moss-grown 
trough  on  the  back  hill-road.  He  drank  deeply  and 
cooled  his  face  and  hands  in  the  delicious  water — look 
ing  away  over  the  smiling  valley,  and  up  to  the 
wooded  crests  beyond.  "I  will  stay  here,"  he  said, 
"and  let  God's  millions  work  in  that  accursed 
city." 

There  was  plenty  of  hard  work  to  be  done  on  the 
neglected  little  farm.  Immanuel  dug,  cut  weeds,  re 
paired  fences  and  cleaned  rusted  farm  implements  in  a 
kind  of  dogged  fury.  It  appeared  to  him  that  the  hard- 
wrung  drops  of  perspiration  were  in  a  measure  cleans- 


214  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

ing;  that  through  them  he  might  in  some  way  attain 
peace. 

After  a  time  a  violet-tinted  note  bearing  the  Newport 
postmark  reached  him  in  his  solitude;  he  did  not  trust 
himself  to  read  it,  but  buried  it  unopened  at  the  foot 
of  a  giant  oak.  Nevertheless  he  answered  it. 

"  I  must  tell  you,"  he  wrote,  "  that  I  have  been  car 
ried  far  away  from  your  world  by  a  power  that  I  would 
not  resist,  if  I  could." 

Margaret  Livingstone  knitted  her  perfect  brows  over 
this  strange  communication  for  some  moments.  Then 
she  carried  it  to  her  mother. 

"He  has  probably  lost  his  money,"  said  that  lady 
astutely.  "  Papa  says  that  he  has  withdrawn  his  offer 
for  the  Mills-Satterlee  cottage." 

Miss  Livingstone  shrugged  her  handsome  shoulders. 
' '  Only  fancy ! "  she  cried,  ' '  1  might  have  accepted  him !  " 

"  You  would  have  broken  the  engagement  of  course," 
said  mamma.  "  But,"  she  added  piously,  "  I  am  truly 
thankful  that  no  such  entanglement  occurred." 

And  so  the  matter  was  dropped  until  Mr.  Living 
stone,  senior,  chanced  to  mention  at  dinner  one  night, 
the  fact  that  young  Rossi  was  fast  becoming  the  talk 
of  the  town. 

"  What  has  he  been  doing,  pray  ?"  inquired  his  wife, 
with  a  veiled  glance  at  her  daughter. 

"Making  a  big  fool  of  himself,  Trent  tells  me,"  re 
plied  Mr.  Livingstone  curtly.  "  The  fellow  won't  have 
a  cent  in  ten  years  if  he  goes  on  as  he  has  begun. 
He's  buying  block  after  block  of  the  best  tenement 
property  in  the  city  at  ruinous  prices  and  replacing 
them  with  costly  buildings  that  won't  bring  in  three 
per  cent. !  " 


CALLED  BACK  215 

"  He's  a  beastly  crank,"  remarked  young  Living 
stone  conclusively.  Then  he  fixed  his  sister  with  a 
basilisk  gaze.  "  Little  Margaret  doesn't  seem  quite  as 
much  interested  in  the  toiling  masses  as  she  did  earlier 
in  the  season." 

"It  is  possible  that  I  discovered  the  facts  in  the  case 
before  you  did,  my  very  wise  brother,"  answered  the 
young  lady  returning  the  look  with  interest. 

"  We  couldn't  have  thought  of  such  a  thing  under 
the  circumstances!"  twittered  Mrs.  Livingstone  in  her 
comfortable  staccato.  "  I  must  say  to  you,  Robert," 
she  continued  majestically,  "that  I  wish  you  to  be 
more  careful  in  future  as  to  whom  you  introduce  into 
the  family  circle.  I  am  told  on  very  good  authority 
that  this  young  person  was  of  no  family  whatever,  and 
that  his  mother  was  actually  buried  as  a  pauper!  " 

Young  Livingstone  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  That's 
all  true  enough,"  he  said;  "old  Pickle  Armitage  cut  his 
daughter  off  without  a  cent  because  she  married  a  clerk 
or  something  of  the  kind.  But  I'm  surprised  to  hear 
you  say  anything  about  that,  honored  mamma." 

"  Robert!  "  thundered  his  father. 

"Humph!"  ejaculated  that  young  gentleman  disre 
spectfully,  "who  cares  if  dear  defunct  grandpapa  was 
a  butcher?  He's  buried  handsomely.  It  would  have 
been  highly  suitable  for  Sis'  here  to  have  wedded  beef 
to  pickles;  they  always  go  well  together! "  Having 
delivered  himself  of  this  telling  shot  in  full  hearing  of 
the  butler,  he  strolled  away,  regardless  of  the  voiceless 
indignation  of  his  injured  family. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
A  Lucrative  Situation 

"  T  T  7HAT  you  need,  pa,  is  a  good,  strong,  young 
VV  fellow  to  jes'  take  a  holt  right  along;  ain't 
that  so,  Em'line  ?  I  tell  pa  they  ain't  none  of  us  as 
young  as  we  wuz  once,  but  the  work  hes  to  goon  jest 
the  same."  Mrs.  Scott  pushed  away  her  coffee  cup 
with  decision,  and  adjusted  her  spectacles. 

"  I  guess  that's  so,  pa,"  assented  Emeline,  smilingly. 
The  years  had  wrought  little  change  in  her  broad  good- 
natured  face,  but  her  substantial  figure  had  gained  in 
girth  as  had  the  fruit  trees  and  maples  in  the  front 
yard.  "  Hildy  an'  me's  a-goin'  to  p'serve  cherries  to 
day,  ain't  we,  Hildy?"  she  added  irrelevantly. 

The  slim  young  woman  seated  near  the  window  did 
not  lift  her  eyes  from  the  page  she  was  eagerly  read 
ing.  All  three  of  the  others  turned  to  look  at  her,  a 
fond  smile  upon  their  faces.  She  was  a  sufficiently 
pleasing  picture  in  her  pale  blue  gown,  the  broad  light 
from  the  unshaded  window  bringing  out  marvelous 
tints  of  pearl  and  rose  and  gold  as  it  rested  on  her 
bowed  head. 

"Hildy's  company,  Em'line,"  said  Mrs.  Scott  indul 
gently.  "  I  don't  guess  she  wants  to  stain  her  hands 
all  up  with  cherry  juice,  do  you,  Hildy  ?  " 

"I'll  help  as  soon  as  I  get  through  with  this  story," 
murmured  the  girl,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "I  like 
to  pick  cherries." 

216 


A  LUCRATIVE  SITUATION  217 

"  I  guess  there's  somebody  a  livin'  in  ol"  Mose  Arm- 
itage's  house,"  remarked  Emeline,  gathering  up  a  hand 
ful  of  cups  and  carrying  them  across  the  room.  "I 
saw  the  door  was  standin'  open  yesterday." 

"It's  the  young  feller — I  allers  forgit  his  name,"  ex 
plained  Mr.  Scott,  as  he  busily  packed  tobacco  in  his 
corncob  pipe.  "I  seen  him  as  I  come  from  the  post- 
office  las'  night.  'What  you  doin'  nowadays?'! 
says  to  him.  He  ain't  no  great  shakes  of  a  farmer, 
1  reckon,  any  more'n  ol'  Mose  was.  '  I'm  tryin'  to  git 
the  farm  in  some  kin'  of  shape,' he  says.  'Well,' I 
says,  '  I  guess  ye'll  find  it  pretty  hard  sleddin'  for  a 
spell.  The  land  ain't  been  cultivated  to  speak  of  for 
nigh  onto  forty  years.'  He  looked  at  me  so  kind 
of  flabbergasted  'at  I  like  to  ha'  laughed  in  his  face. 
'  I  guess  I  kin  git  my  livin'  off  it,'  he  says." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  him  to  help  you  out  with  the 
hayin',  pa?"  asked  Mrs.  Scott.  "  He's  a  big  strong- 
lookin'  chap.  Land,  it  'ud  be  a  real  kindness!  "  she 
added ;  "  you  could  teach  him  how  to  farm  in  no  time. 
I  don't  s'pose  he  knows  wheat  f'om  barley!" 

Mr.  Scott  puffed  meditatively  at  his  pipe.  "  I  guess 
I'll  go  out  t'  the  barn,"  he  ejaculated,  after  a  long  pause. 

An  hour  later  he  might  have  been  seen  making  his 
way  'cross  lots  toward  the  Armitage  farm.  A  blue- 
shirted  figure  rising  and  falling  with  some  sort  of 
laborious  motion  betrayed  the  whereabouts  of  the 
young  hermit. 

"Gosh-te-whack! "  muttered  the  farmer.  "If  the 
young  fool  ain't  a-spadin'  his  four  acre  lot! " 

"You  seem  to  be  tol'able  busy  this  mornin',"  he 
remarked  with  cheerful  derision,  as  he  came  to  a  stand 
still  beside  the  rail  fence  which  divided  the  two  farms. 


2i 8  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"  1  like  to  see  folks  industrious  myself,"  he  went  on, 
"but  I  mus'  say  I  hate  to  see  'em  a-wastin'  time. 
Why  don't  ye  plough,  man  ?  You  won't  git  no  crops 
here  till  kingdom  come  at  this  rate." 

Immanuel  looked  up  and  nodded  without  speaking. 
He  was  fighting  a  fierce  devil  of  discontent  with  the 
first  weapon  that  had  come  to  hand. 

"I've  been  a  thinkin'  'bout  your  case,  young  feller," 
pursued  Mr.  Scott  with  dignity;  "  an'  I've  talked  it  over 
with  my  wife.  I  ain't  so  young  as  I  was  once,  an'  I 
ain't  had  much  luck  with  hired  men  lately.  I'm  too 
blamed  pertic'lar  Mis'  Scott  says.  What  do  you  say 
now  to  kinder  joinin'  forces,  you  an'  me  ;  I  to  supply 
the  brains,  so  to  say,  an'  you  to  supply  the  muscle. 
You  ain't  got  no  stock,  I  notice,  an'  prob'ly  no  money 
to  buy  it  with;  an'  of  course  ploughin's  out  of  the 
question  without  horses.  I've  got  horses,  an'  I've  got 
ploughs  an'  harrers,  an'  knowledge;  that,  I  take  it,  is 
what  you're  a  lackin'  wo'st  of  all." 

He  paused  and  looked  keenly  at  the  young  man's 
flushed  face.  "Don't  say  'no,'  till  you've  thought  it 
over,"  he  added.  "I'm  an  honest  man,  an'  I  ain't  a 
plannin'  to  take  undoo  advantage  of  ye.  We'll  culti 
vate  the  two  farms  equal,  an'  divide  the  crops  acre  for 
acre.  As  fur  livin'  you  c'n  eat  to  our  house;  there's 
plenty  of  room  thar  and  plenty  of  victuals;  it  don't 
strike  me  as  bein'  sensible  fur  you  to  be  livin'  alone  the 
way  you've  set  out  to  do.  'Course  you'll  be  gettin' 
married  arter  a  spell,  but  whilst  you're  a  lookin'  'round 
fur  a  likely  gal  as  'ull  cook  yer  victuals  tasty  and  slick 
up  yer  house,  you  might's  well  keep  up  yer  sperits 
with  some  of  ma's  cookin'." 

"You  are  very  good  to  have  thought  of  me  at  all," 


A  LUCRATIVE  SITUATION  219 

said  Immanuel,  with  a  grateful  look  into  the  old 
farmer's  kindly,  rugged  face.  "  I— I  will  think  the 
matter  over,  and  let  you  know  at  once." 

"Take  yer  time — take  yer  time,  young  man;  my 
crops  is  pretty  well  under  way.  You'll  have  to  put 
this  'ere  lot  into  turnips,  I  reckon,  an'  leave  the  rest  in 
grass  till  fall.  But  there  ain't  any  better  corn  land 
anywheres  'an  the  slope  of  that  hill  yonder.  I  tol' 
your  uncle  so  more'n  once;  but  the  ol'  gent'man  was 
kind  of  cranky  'bout  farmin',  an'  bound  to  have  his 
own  way.  Wall,  guess  I'll  say  good-day;  you  know 
whar  to  fin'  me." 

Immanuel  Rossi  stood  still  and  watched  the  slouched 
figure  of  the  farmer  as  it  strode  away  across  the  fields, 
his  cheerful  whistle  floating  back  on  the  morning 
breeze.  Then  he  looked  down  at  the  patch  of  roughly 
dug  earth  at  his  feet  and  laughed  aloud.  "I'm  not 
much  of  a  man  on  the  back  hill-road,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  Then  his  thoughts  wandered  to  a  certain  lawyer's 
office,  and  Mr.  Smalley's  dry,  sarcastic  tones  sounded 
in  his  ears.  "Your  knowledge  of  finance,  Mr.  Rossi, 
might  be  increased  to  your  great  advantage."  Now 
Margaret  Livingstone's  gray  eyes  looked  at  him  with 
sweet,  questioning  gravity.  "Do  the  buildings  make 
the  slums,  Mr.  Rossi,  or  do  the  people  who  live  in 
them  ?"  He  had  not  answered  her;  he  could  not. 

"I  might  begin  with  farming,"  he  said  aloud.  "It 
is  well  to  know  something  for  certain — if  it  is  nothing 
more  than  how  best  to  dig  a  turnip  patch." 

The  next  day  he  visited  the  city.  "  Is  there  anything 
I  can  do  to  further  this  work  ?  "  he  asked  the  architects 
who  were  laboring  on  the  plans  for  his  new  blocks. 

"We  should  be  glad  to  have  your  approval  of  the 


220  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

changes  we  have  indicated,"  replied  these  gentle 
men. 

"Is  there  anything  more?"  he  asked  again  at  the 
expiration  of  an  hour  spent  in  looking  over  the  plans. 

"Hum — ah,  no.  In  fact  the  work  will  go  on  very 
well  without  your  presence.  If  you  should  wish  to  be 
absent  for  a  year  or  more  we  think  you  would  find 
everything  to  your  mind  on  your  return.  Our  inter 
national  reputation  is  at  stake  in  this  matter,  Mr.  Rossi; 
you  may  depend  upon  us  implicitly." 

He  went  out  after  a  while  and  stood  at  a  distance 
watching  the  demolition  of  the  terrible  old  Baxter 
Street  block  which  had  numbered  its  victims  by  hun 
dreds.  "The  money  is  working,"  he  thought  with 
some  bitterness;  "but  the  man  is  not  wanted." 

That  evening  Mr.  Si'  Scott,  smoking  his  pipe  on  the 
front  porch  of  his  comfortable  farmhouse,  received  a 
visitor.  "  Ben  thinkin'  it  over — eh  ?  "  he  inquired  with 
a  chuckle.  "An'  how  goes  that 'ere  turnip  patch  of 
yourn ;  got  yer  seed  in  yet  ?  " 

"I  am  anxious  to  work,"  replied  Immanuel  gravely. 
"I  have  therefore  decided  to  accept  your  offer  for  the 
present." 

"That's  where  you're  smart!"  ejaculated  the  old 
farmer.  "You'll  do  well  to  stick  to  it.  This  'ere 
rollin'  stone  business  ain't  good  for  young  folks,  an' 
that's  what  the  matter!  Ain't  that  so,  Hildy  ?  Hildy, 

here's  Mr. What'd  you  say  yer  name  was  ? 

Blamed  if  it  don't  go  in  one  ear  an'  out  the  other  ev'ry 
time.  Immanuel  Rossi — heh  ?  Suppose  I  make  it 
'Manuel  fur  short;  that'll  come  handy  in  the  pertater 
field,  I  reckon." 

The  young  girl  bowed  coldly  in  acknowledgment  of 


A  LUCRATIVE  SITUATION  221 

this  curious  introduction.  She  was  dressed  in  a  pink 
muslin  gown,  and  her  pale  gold  hair  rose  in  a  fluffy 
aureole  above  her  white  forehead  to  meet  a  coquettish 
bow  of  pink  ribbon.  She  seated  herself  at  some  dis 
tance  from  the  two  men  and  fell  diligently  to  work  on 
a  strip  of  intricate  lace  crocheting. 

"I  don't  s'pose  you  remember  us  folks,"  her  grand 
father  was  saying,  with  the  obvious  purpose  of  putting 
an  embarrassed  guest  at  his  ease.  "  Mother  an'  Em'line 
was  talkin'  it  over  this  mornin';  I'd  clean  forgot  it  my 
self.  I  tell  ye  it  takes  the  women-folks  to  remember! 
You  was  a  little  shaver  no  higher  'an  my  knee,  ma 
says;  an'  Hildy  here  wa'n't  more'n  five.  She'd  run 
away  in  the  strawb'ry  medder  yonder,  an'  Em'line 
found  her  a-settin'  thar  an'  eatin'  your  berries  as  cool's 
a  cowcumber.  '  I'm  a-goin'  to  keep  him  to  play  with, 
gran'ma,'  she  says.  Do  ye  remember  that,  Hildy? 
My,  if  she  wa'n't  a  little  skeesicks!  Kep'  her  gran'ma 
a-trottin'  lively!  I  don't  guess  you  rec'lect,  do  ye, 
young  man  ?  " 

Immanuel  glanced  at  the  girl,  who  lifted  her  blue 
eyes  with  a  little  frown  of  annoyance.  "  What  stories 
you  do  tell  about  me,  gran'pa,"  she  said  daintily.  "  I'm 
sure  I  don't  remember  anything  of  the  kind." 

"You'd  have  to  have  a  bigger  head 'an  you've  got 
to  remember  a  quarter  o'  your  didoes,  girl,"  chuckled 
Mr.  Scott,  fixing  his  eyes  expectantly  on  Immanuel. 

"  I  remember  it  very  well  indeed,"  he  said,  falling  in 
with  the  old  man's  humor.  "  I  had  run  away,  and 
was  making  for  the  top  of  the  big  hill  there;  luckily 
for  me,  Miss  Hilda  succeeded  in  convincing  me  that 
there  was  nothing  worth  going  for.  She  also  fur 
bished  up  my  manners  a  little,  otherwise  I  fear  I 


222  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

should  have  failed  to  say  'yes'm'  and  'no'm'  at  the 
proper  intervals." 

The  girl  regarded  him  with  a  shadowy  smile.  "I 
think  I  do  remember,"  she  said  slowly.  "  You  ran 
away  again,  and  I  cried."  A  faint  color  crept  into  the 
fair  cheeks  as  she  drooped  her  head  over  her  work. 

"  Our  Hildy's  here  on  a  visit,"  went  on  the  old  man 
garrulously.  "She's  been  livin'  to  hum  sence  her  pa 
married  again.  She's  a  great  scholar,  Hildy  is;  her 
pa's  give  her  plenty  of  schoolin' — more'n  enough,  I 
tell  him.  Readin',  writin',  an'  'rith'm'tic's  a-plenty  for 
women-folks.  Let  'em  spen'  the  balance  of  their  time 
in  larnin'  how  to  make  the  men-folks  comftable,  I 
say!" 

Immanuel  interrupted  this  copious  flow  of  opinion 
by  asking  to  look  over  the  farm.  He  had  already  been 
visited  by  vague  misgivings  as  to  the  wisdom  of  his 
course;  that  these  misgivings  had  their  rise  in  the  girl's 
blue  eyes,  he  did  not  guess.  It  occurred  to  him,  how 
ever,  that  life  was  after  all  curiously  alike,  whether 
lived  in  a  Newport  villa  or  a  back-country  farm. 
Absorbed  in  these  meditations  he  scarcely  heard  his 
new  mentor's  exposition  on  the  relative  merits  of 
timothy  hay  and  red  clover  for  winter  fodder,  though 
he  returned  affirmative  answers  whenever  a  pause  and 
upward  inflection  seemed  to  demand. 

" Gosh-te-whack,  man!  You  don't  mean  that,  I 
guess!  "  cried  his  host. 

"  Mean  what? — I  beg  your  pardon;  I  fear  I  did  not 
follow  you." 

"  You  seem  to  have  some  book-larnin'  I  take  notice," 
said  the  old  man  crustily;  "but  book-larnin'  ain't 
everythin',  an'  it  ain't  no  airthly  good  to  ye  ef  you  let 


A  LUCRATIVE  SITUATION  223 

yer  wits  go  wool-gatherin'  all  the  while.  I  kin'  of 
mistrusted  you  wa'n't  lis'nin'  so  I  asked  ye  if  ye  thought 
it  was  a  good  idee  to  let  the  stock  into  the  vegetable 
garden  of  a  mornin',  an'  you  says  'yes.'  "  Mr.  Scott 
paused  to  let  this  telling  shot  sink  home,  then  he  said 
pleasantly,  "Wall,  young  folks  will  be  young  folks,  an' 
1  guess  it's  better  so;  but  ef  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  let 
Hildy's  pink  cheeks  distract  yer  mind  fom  more  useful 
things.  She's  a  mighty  uppish  little  piece,  Hildy  is." 

Immanuel  assured  his  employer  gravely  that  he 
would  remember  his  warning;  he  also  intimated  that 
he  understood  the  delicate  hint  conveyed  in  his  con 
cluding  words. 

"Sho!"  cried  Mr.  Scott,  with  some  embarrassment, 
"I  ain't  proud,  an'  I  don't  want  you  should  think  so  fur 
a  minute!  They  ain't  no  better  man  on  God's  airth  'an 
a  good,  honest  farmer,  an'  I  know  it!  But  a  man's 
got  to  know  his  biz'  mighty  well  to  take  care  of  any 
woman— an'  don't  you  forgit  it.  An'  thinks's  I  Hildy 
wouldn't  care  no  more'n  a  kitten  unwindin'  a  ball  of 
yarn;  but  it  wouldn't  be  so  'greeable  for  you  to  git  the 
mitten  come  fall.  Hildy's  pa  thinks  she's  the  hull 
thing  f'om  a  to  izzard.  He  calc'lates  she'll  marry  his 
partner's  son.  He's  in  the  tin-roofin'  business,  my 
son-in-law  is;  he  ain't  much  use  fur  a  man  that  works 
with  his  han's." 

The  young  man  made  no  reply;  he  was  again  reflect 
ing  on  the  solidarity  of  human  opinion. 

"I'll  give  ye  plenty  to  think  'bout,"  Mr.  Scott  was 
saying  briskly.  "Hayin"  'ull  begin  to-morrer  mornin' 
at  five-thirty  sharp." 

Immanuel  wrestled  long  with  the  veiled  angel  of  his 
future  that  night.  Before  he  slept  he  had  settled  cer- 


224  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

tain  matters  with  himself  once  and  for  all.  "  I  will 
earn  my  living  as  a  man  among  men,"  he  said.  "The 
money  which  killed  my  mother  shall  bind  up  as  many 
wounds  as  may  be." 

The  little  farm,  he  remembered,  was  his  honestly. 
It  would  serve  as  a  halting  place  for  the  nonce  while 
he  was  deciding  on  the  day's  march.  This  month  and 
the  next  he  would  study  farming;  after  that — well, 
there  was  the  law,  medicine,  theology.  He  strove  to 
imagine  himself  engaged  in  any  one  of  these  callings, 
but  without  success.  He  determined  at  last  to  let  the 
slow  current  of  the  days  bring  him  to  some  haven  of 
decision.  To  the  yellow-haired  girl  who  had  once 
wept  childish  tears  over  his  absence,  he  gave  not  a 
single  thought. 

Hilda  Wilde  on  the  contrary  had  already  spent  several 
very  agreeable  hours  in  weaving  a  harmless  web  of 
fancy  about  the  stranger.  This  young  person  had 
passed  the  twenty  years  of  her  life  amid  the  more  or 
less  humdrum  surroundings  of  her  native  town.  To 
her  stepmother  she  owed  the  doubtful  habit  of  irra 
diating  the  dull  round  of  village  duties  and  amusements 
with  the  transient  lustre  of  romance. 

"I'm  a  great  reader,"  the  second  Mrs.  Wilde  was  in 
the  habit  of  affirming  complacently.  "Give  me  a 
good  book,  an  apple  and  a  rocking-chair,  and  I  don't 
care  whether  school  keeps  or  not!  " 

This  lady  lived  strictly  up  to  her  convictions;  she 
rocked  in  a  cushioned  chair  and  devoured  apples  and 
cheaply-bound  novels,  over  which  she  laughed  and 
cried,  through  the  greater  part  of  ten  years.  At  the 
end  of  this  period  she  passed  through  an  experience 
of  her  own  which  laid  her  beside  her  predecessor. 


A  LUCRATIVE  SITUATION  225 

Her  stepdaughter,  Hilda,  now  graduated  from  the 
village  academy  found  herself  practically  her  own  mis 
tress,  and  heir  to  a  vast  collection  of  story-books,  a 
taste  for  which  she  very  speedily  acquired.  The  sight 
of  his  pretty  young  daughter  in  tears  over  a  yellow- 
backed  novel  in  the  very  chair  wherein  his  late  wife 
had  rocked  and  read  her  days  away,  roused  John 
Wilde  to  a  vague  indignation.  He  was  aware  that  the 
sight  had  stirred  his  choler  to  the  depths;  he  did  not 
care  to  investigate  the  cause  of  his  emotion  too 
closely.  It  might  prove  disrespectful  to  the  memory 
of  the  dear  departed.  Being  a  man  of  action  he  con 
tented  himself  with  commanding  the  girl  to  make 
ready  at  once  for  a  visit  to  the  country.  But  paper- 
bound  romances  travel  cheaply,  and  the  shaded  porch 
on  the  back  hill-road  was  a  delightful  place  to  read. 

With  a  fancy  thus  educated  it  was  little  wonder  that 
Hilda  Wilde  should  find  Immanuel  Rossi's  dark  face 
and  tall  athletic  figure  an  object  of  interest.  "He 
looks  exactly  like  that  lovely  Sir  Reginald  Minton  in 
the  '  Revenge  of  the  Duchess,' "  she  told  herself.  "And 
I  am  sure  he  does  not  speak  like  a  common  farmer." 

She  regarded  her  reflection  in  the  truthful  mirror 
with  pleasurable  interest;  an  oval  face  delicately 
colored,  red  lips  parting  to  reveal  a  row  of  small  white 
teeth,  a  fluff  of  yellow  waving  hair;  blue  eyes  darkly 
shaded.  These  charms,  she  decided,  compared  very 
well  indeed  with  those  of  her  favorite  heroine.  Of 
the  sleeping  woman's  soul  that  lay  behind  all  this 
shifting,  dazzling  play  of  color  she  was  as  profoundly 
ignorant  as  is  a  playful  tigress  cub  of  the  meaning  of 
the  curved  and  shining  talons,  lengthening  day  by  day 
within  its  soft  baby  paws.  An  instinct  which  she 


226  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

neither  questioned  nor  resisted  presided  over  her 
morning  toilet,  and  brought  her  to  the  breakfast  table 
at  dawn  with  a  face  like  Hebe's. 

"  Law,  Hildy,  whatever  brought  you  out  of  your 
bed  this  early  ?"  demanded  her  grandmother.  "You 
ain't  used  to  eatin'  at  sun-up." 

"I  like  to  get  up  early  sometimes,"  replied  Hilda; 
she  looked  around  the  room  with  an  inquiring  expres 
sion,  which  presently  gave  way  to  a  decided  pout. 

"We're  a-goin'  to  begin  op'rations  on  the  ten  acre 
lot  this  mornin',"  her  grandfather  was  saying.  "Say, 
ma,  it's  a  goin'  to  be  all-fired  hot  to-day,  an'  that 
young  feller,  'Manuel,  ain't  used  to  workin'  as  I'll  put 
him  through;  guess  you'd  better  send  down  a  jug 
o'  molasses  water  long  'bout  ten  o'clock.  Em'line  can 
fetch  it." 

"I've  got  to  churn  this  mornin',  pa,"  objected  Eme- 
line  mildly.  She  glanced  doubtfully  at  Hilda  as  she 
spoke.  To  her  surprise  that  young  person  offered  her 
services  with  alacrity. 

"You'll  fetch  the  molasses-jug — eh!"  cried  Mr. 
Scott,  with  a  wink  at  his  wife.  "Jest  hear  that,  ma! 
An'  wa'n't  it  only  las'  week  'at  you  couldn't  feed  the 
pigs  to  save  yer  life." 

Hilda  thrust  out  a  saucy  lip  at  her  grandfather. 
"  Feeding  pigs  is  different,"  she  said. 

"Now,  Hildy,  don't  you  be  a-settin'  your  cap  at 
that  young  feller,"  said  the  old  man,  wagging  his  fore 
finger  oracularly.  "  I've  warned  him  agin  you." 

"You've  done  what!"  cried  the  girl,  blushing 
angrily. 

"Why,  pa,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Scott  reprovingly,  "I 
wonder  at  ye!" 


A  LUCRATIVE  SITUATION  227 

"Wall,"  grumbled  Mr.  Scott,  "he's  as  poor  as  a 
church  mouse  fur  one  thing,  an'  don'  know  nothin' 
'bout  farmin'  fur  another.  1  want  Hildy  should  leave 
him  be,  that's  all." 

"I  declare  to  goodness,  pa,  you've  got  about  as 
much  sense  as  mos'  men-folks!"  murmured  Mrs. 
Scott  in  an  indignant  undertone,  as  the  girl  left  the 
room.  "  An'  that  ain't  'nough  to  put  on  the  pint  of  a 
cambric  needle!  You've  jes'  gone  an'  put  the  notion 
into  her  head  now.  Land,  I  remember  once  when  we 
was  all  children  pa  and  ma  was  goin'  to  spen'  the  day 
at  the  county  fair.  It  was,  '  don't  do  this,'  an'  '  don't 
do  that,'  an'  'be  sure  you  remember  the  other,'  till  I 
was  mos'  crazy.  I  was  the  oldest.  The  las'  thing  jes' 
as  they  was  drivin'  out  the  yard,  ma,  she  turns  'round 
an'  hollers  out,  '  Myry,  Myry,  don't  let  the  children  put 
beans  up  their  noses!'  They  was  all  standin' there 
an'  listenin'.  Hadn't  one  of  'em  ever  'magined  sech  a 
thing;  but  I  declare  to  goodness  if  both  the  boys 
didn't  try  it  that  very  afternoon  whilst  I  was  feedin' 
the  chickens!  We  had  the  doctor  a-working  over  'em 
most  o'  the  next  day.  It  was  a  lesson  to  me,  I  remem 
ber.  Idees  is  like  seed;  ef  you  don't  want  'em  to 
grow,  don't  plant  "em." 

"Oh,  bother!"  quoth  Mr.  Scott  disrespectfully.  "I 
guess  I'll  go  out  t'  the  barn." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
Under  the  Hickories 

IT  seemed  to  Immanuel  Rossi  that  he  had  never 
tasted  a  more  delicious  draught  than  the  mixture  of 
molasses,  home-made  vinegar  and  spring  water  which 
a  very  demure  little  maid  poured  for  him  out  of  the 
old  stone  jar.  She  looked  the  picture  of  coolness  her 
self  as  she  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  hickories.  Her 
blue  and  white  dress  took  to  itself  translucent  shadows 
against  the  background  of  green  grass,  her  face  in  all 
its  delicious  tints  of  pearl  and  rose  glowed  flower-like 
under  the  broad  white  hat. 

If  one  has  learned  to  be  a  lover  of  fresh  young 
blossoms,  of  white  drifting  clouds,  of  dancing  depths 
of  blue  water,  of  slim,  graceful  shapes  of  young  tree- 
bodies,  of  the  evanescent,  innocent  beauty  of  kittens, 
lambs  and  children  one  can  hardly  look  upon  a  fasci 
nating  embodiment  of  these  varied  charms  without 
some  pleasurable  emotion.  And  if  that  practiced  ob 
server  of  nature's  lovely  ways  be  a  man — and  young — 
his  heart  is  likely  to  give  an  extra  beat  or  two  when 
he  beholds  such  a  specimen  of  nature's  handiwork  as 
the  shade  of  the  hickories  enfolded. 

Hilda's  brown  curling  lashes  made  the  prettiest 
shadowy  half  moon  on  her  flushed  cheek  that  can 
possibly  be  imagined;  her  little  pearly  ears  peeped  out 
from  an  ambush  of  shining  airy  rings  of  the  most  ex- 

228 


JOSSI      THAT 


UNDER  THE  HICKORIES  229 

quisite  shifting  color.  Immanuel  Rossi's  brown  eyes 
took  in  these  details  with  the  same  pleasure  he  would 
have  experienced  had  the  girl  been  four  instead  of 
twenty.  At  least  he  would  have  said  so  if  cross- 
questioned  on  the  subject. 

"  This  is  the  strawberry  meadow  where  I  found  you 
that  day,"  said  Hilda,  dimpling.  "  It  was  down  by  the 
brook  yonder." 

She  had  put  her  Aunt  Emeline  through  an  exhaustive 
examination  on  the  subject  the  evening  before;  and  it 
had  struck  her  as  being  every  whit  as  delightfully 
romantic  as  the  first  meeting  of  Lady  Mary  Fitzwilliam 
and  Lord  Derwent  in  "  The  Gipsey's  Warning"  which 
she  was  at  present  perusing. 

"It  was  over  by  that  big  stone,"  she  con 
tinued.  "I  saw  you  sitting  there  and  waded  right 
through  the  brook  with  my  new  shoes." 

"I  was  looking  at  the  valley,"  said  Immanuel,  "and 
listening  to  the  meadow  larks;  I  remember  thinking 
that  your  voice  sounded  like  a  bird's  when  you  asked 
me  for  my  berries." 

"I  fear  I  was  very  selfish,"  cooed  Hilda  sweetly; 
"for  I  ate  them  all." 

She  raised  her  blue  eyes  to  his  as  she  said  this,  with 
such  an  amazing  depth  of  soul  looking  out  from  under 
the  long  curving  lashes,  that  Immanuel  Rossi  was 
surely  not  to  blame  for  instantly  concluding  that  the 
dread  sin  of  selfishness  had  never  clouded  this  white 
life. 

It  is  somehow  exceeding  difficult  for  the  average 
male  human  to  discern  the  true  excellence  and  worth 
so  often  hid  beneath  an  ugly  exterior.  Had  Hilda 
Wilde  been  possessed  of  small  squinting  orbs  of 


230  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

vision,  shaded  by  scant  stubbed  lashes,  those  eyes 
might  have  mirrored  forth  never  so  heroic  a  soul  and 
it  is  safe  to  say  that  neither  Immanuel  Rossi  nor  any 
other  man  would  have  discovered  it. 

"You  were  surely  not  so  selfish  as  I,"  he  said 
gravely;  "I  had  run  away  without  a  thought  of  the 
misery  I  was  causing." 

"  You  are  thinking  of  poor  Mrs.  Winch,"  murmured 
the  girl.  "Aunt  Emeline  says  she  will  never  forget 
her  face  the  day  she  stopped  at  the  farm.  She  had 
found  your  hat  by  the  roadside,  and  thought  you 
were  dead."  Hilda  repented  the  last  words  as  she 
saw  the  cloud  which  swept  over  her  listener's  face. 
The  tall  stooped  form  of  her  grandfather  was  coming 
toward  them  across  the  field.  "  Grandmother  told  me 
to  ask  you  to  be  sure  to  come  to  dinner  to-day,"  she 
said  hastily.  This  remark  drew  the  brown  eyes  once 
more  to  her  face. 

"  I  am  going  to  make  the  cherry  pudding  myself.  I 
can  make  such  delicious  ones!"  Her  dimpling  face 
betrayed  such  a  pretty  girlish  pride  in  the  womanly 
accomplishment;  the  pink  deepened  so  bewitchingly 
in  the  soft  cheeks  like  the  unfolding  of  a  mysterious 
rose  of  life,  that  Immanuel  found  himself  smiling 
down  at  the  pretty  cup-bearer. 

"I  shall  certainly  come,"  he  said,  and  turned  rather 
shamefacedly  to  meet  the  quizzical  look  of  the  old 
farmer. 

"Gittin'  cooled  off?"  inquired  Mr.  Scott.  Then 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  "I'll  take  a  cup  of  your 
hayin'-drink,  Hildy,  then  you  can  run  along  an'  help 
yer  gran'ma." 

A    slim,   blue    and    white    figure  flitting  through 


UNDER  THE  HICKORIES  231 

patches  of  shade  and  sunshine  and  disappearing  at 
last  behind  a  clump  of  blossoming  locusts  could  have 
had  no  possible  connection  with  the  "long,  long 
thoughts"  which  Immanuel  Rossi  was  indulging  in 
the  hay-field.  It  certainly  occurred  to  him  as  he  laid 
the  long  fragrant  swathes  beneath  the  July  sun  that 
there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  find  happiness 
as  did  other  men.  He  remembered  with  satisfaction 
that  Hilda's  blue  eyes  had  seen  in  him  only  the  owner 
of  a  few  barren  acres  on  the  back  hill-road.  To  work 
as  a  man,  to  love  as  a  man,  to  live  as  a  man,  and  not 
as  that  monstrosity  called  a  millionaire,  appeared  to 
this  very  singular  young  person  as  supremely  desir 
able. 

It  was  perhaps  because  of  these  thoughts  that  the 
plain  dinner,  served  in  the  farm  kitchen,  had  so  ex 
quisite  a  savor. 

"  Hildy  made  the  puddin',  gran'pa,"  said  Mrs.  Scott, 
beaming  with  hospitable  satisfaction  as  she  cut  her 
guest  a  generous  slice. 

"My — my!  Hildy  must  have  quit  her  readin'  for 
quite  a  spell  this  mornin',"  chuckled  the  old  man. 
"  What  with  fetchin'  the  jug  to  the  medder  an'  all." 

"Do  you  like  to  read,  Miss  Hilda?"  asked  Im 
manuel,  regarding  the  girl  with  a  new  interest. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  dropping  her  long  lashes. 

"Our  Hildy's  a  great  hand  for  story-books,"  ob 
served  Mr.  Scott,  passing  his  plate  for  a  second  slice 
of  the  pudding.  "What  was  that  las'  one — 'The 
Phantom  Weddin','  wa'n't  it?  Say,  that's  a  great 
book;  I  read  pretty  nigh  a  chapter  of  it  myself.  I 
guess  Hildy  'ud  lend  it  to  you,  if  you  like  story-books, 
'Manuel.  Wouldn't  ye,  Hildy  ?" 


232  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

The  girl  flushed  uneasily  under  Immanuel's  inquir 
ing  eyes.  "I  don't  think  it  is  so  very  good,"  she 
murmured  faintly.  "But  of  course  I  am  willing 
to- 

"I  have  a  great  many  books  at  my  house,"  said 
young  Rossi  gravely;  "  perhaps  there  is  something  on 
my  shelves  better  worth  the  reading  than  the  book  you 
speak  of.  I  will  bring  you  one  to-morrow,  if  you  like." 

"Sho!  I'd  clean  furgot  'bout  Ol'  Mose's  books," 
said  Mr.  Scott.  "  He  was  allers  settin'  'round  over  a 
book.  I  s'pose  you've  got  'em  all;  but  I  wouldn't 
advise  ye  to  waste  yer  time  on  'em,  'Manuel.  Books 
ain't  any  good  'xcept  to  pass  away  the  time  when  ye 
can't  do  anythin'  else.  The  weeds  don't  let  up  growin' 
day  ner  night;  they  git  the  start  of  ye  quicker  'an 
greased  lightnin'." 

Hilda  was  loitering  in  the  shade  of  the  hickories  that 
afternoon  when  Immanuel  passed  out  of  the  ten-acre 
meadow  with  his  scythe  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  didn't  thank  you  for  offering  to  bring  me  a  book, 
Mr.  Rossi,"  she  said  with  a  pretty  air  of  timidity. 
"  There  aren't  many  books  at  gran'pa's,  and  I  do  like 
to  read." 

"1  will  bring  you  something,  certainly,"  said  Im 
manuel.  "What  shall  it  be?  biography,  travel, 
poetry  or — I  am  afraid  there  aren't  many  story-books. 
You  like  stories,  don't  you?" 

Hilda  had  not  listened  to  the  lectures  of  the  high 
school  principal  for  nothing.  She  stole  a  shy  glance 
at  the  strong,  thoughtful  face  bent  toward  her.  "One 
shouldn't  read  stories  too  often,"  she  said  primly. 
"You  may  bring  me — bring  me  something  you  think 
I  would  like." 


UNDER  THE  HICKORIES  233 

Oh,  artful  Hilda!  This  young  man  then,  weary 
with  a  long  day's  toil  in  the  hay-field,  must  stand 
before  his  uncle's  bookcase  thinking  what  you  would 
like.  He  must  learn  to  weigh  things  in  this  new 
balance,  and  his  lesson  shall  begin  with  the  books  on 
the  worm-eaten  shelves  of  the  shabby,  old  house. 

The  next  day  Miss  Hilda  graciously  offered  to  assist 
her  Aunt  Emeline  in  the  gathering  of  the  currants. 
Mrs.  Scott  had  already  appeared,  armed  with  a  six- 
quart  tin  pail.  "Now,  gran'ma,  dear,"  cooed  the 
girl,  "it's  too  hot  out  here  for  you;  isn't  it,  Aunt 
Emeline  ?  I  can  pick  ever  so  fast,  and  we'll  be 
through  in  no  time!" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  began  the  old  lady  doubt 
fully;  "I  would  like  to  mend  father's  overalls." 

"I  guess  you  might  as  well  go  on,"  said  her  daugh 
ter  easily;  "me  an'  Hildy  c'n  ten'  to  the  currants. 
Hildy's  gettin'  real  helpful  lately." 

But  Miss  Scott  presently  found  herself  working 
alone,  while  Hilda,  comfortably  ensconced  in  the 
shade  of  a  big  gooseberry  bush,  concentrated  a  fire  of 
questions  upon  her  worthy  relative's  somewhat  wan 
dering  faculties. 

"  Don't  you  think  he's  handsome,  Aunt  Em'line  ?" 

"Who  you  talkin'  'bout,  Hildy  ?"  inquired  Emeline, 
glancing  doubtfully  at  the  graceful  figure  in  its  attitude 
of  indolent  ease. 

"Why,  1  mean  Mr.  Rossi;  he  isn't  a  bit  like  a  com 
mon  farmer,  do  you  think  so  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Emeline  mildly;  "I  never 
thought  nothin'  'bout  it." 

"  He  talks  exactly  like  our  minister's  brother, 
Lemuel  Barclay;  he  visited  in  our  place  last  summer. 


234  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

He'd  just  graduated  from  college,  and  he  was  awfully 
smart.  Say,  Aunt  Em'line,  where  did  Mr.  Rossi  go 
to  school  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  child,  he  never  lived  'round  here 
much.  We  never  knew  what  they  was  doin'." 

"  Where  did  he  live  the  rest  of  the  time  ?" 

"In  the  city  mebbe,"  said  Emeline.  "They  did 
used  to  say  his  uncle  had  money  left  him,  but  I  guess 
that  was  a  story.  When  you  goin'  to  pick  currants, 
Hildy  ?  " 

"  In  just  a  minute.  Do  you  suppose  he's  been  to 
college?" 

"Why,  land!  how  should  I  know?  I'll  ask  him  if 
you  want  I  should." 

"No,  don't  do  that;  1  don't  believe  he'd  like  that. 
I  can  find  out  some  day.  But  don't  you  think  it's 
funny  that  he  should  work  for  gran'pa  just  like  a  hired 
man  ?" 

"  Land,  no!  Everybody  does  that  by  spells;  the' 
ain't  nothin'  to  do  on  his  own  place  but  plough.  Pa's 
goin'  to  take  a  holt  there  after  a  spell  an'  get  things  to 
goin'." 

"  Did  you  ever  go  inside  his  house?" 

"  Why,  no;  come  to  think  I  never  have.  Ol'  Mose 
Armitage  was  kin'  of  queer  'bout  most  everythin'.  He 
never  neighbored  with  anybody  much.  I  remember 
mother  went  to  his  wife's  fun'ral;  but  that  was  years 
ago." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  it,"  said  Hilda  plaintively. 

"See  what?  Fur  the  land's  sake,  Hildy,  I  do  wisht 
you'd  go  to  work  at  these  currants!  I  guess  I'll  have 
to  call  mother." 

"No,    don't;  I'm  going  to   help   in  just  a  minute. 


UNDER  THE  HICKORIES  235 

Wouldn't  it  be  fun,  Aunt  Em'line,  for  you  and  me  to 
go  over  there  after  supper!  I  want  to  take  that  book 
back  that  he  brought  me;  I  don't  like  it  a  bit." 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,"  hesitated  the  older  woman; 
"  I  guess  there  ain't  much  to  see." 

"  Well,  we  can  take  a  walk  up  the  road  after  supper 
anyway.  You'll  go  with  me,  won't  you,  Aunt  Em'  ?  " 

"I  guess  so,  if  the  currants  is  picked;  I've  got  to 
make  my  jell  this  aft'noon,  to-morrow's  bakin'  day." 

Hilda  sprang  up  and  her  slim  fingers  were  busy 
among  the  bushes  for  awhile. 

"Aunt  Em'line,"  she  murmured  faintly,  at  the  ex 
piration  of  perhaps  five  minutes;  "  do  you  mind  if  I 
go  in  now  ?  It  makes  my  head  ache  to  stoop  over." 

"I  guess  the  sun's  too  hot  fur  you,  deary,"  said  the 
other  tenderly.  "Go  in  an'  rest,  Aunt  Em' c'n  pick 
'em  all  right." 

At  sunset  that  night  as  Immanuel  rested  on  the  porch 
of  his  lonely  little  house  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices 
wafted  toward  him  on  the  evening  breeze.  There  was 
a  snatch  of  song,  sung  in  a  light,  clear  soprano,  then  a 
trill  of  laughter  sweet  as  the  song  of  a  homing  bird. 
He  leaned  forward  and  peered  through  the  barrier  of 
dusty  lilac  leaves.  There  were  two  figures  coming  up 
the  road,  the  sunset  light  at  their  backs;  one  was 
broad  and  ungainly,  gowned  in  lilac  calico  and  topped 
by  a  flapping  sunbonnet;  the  other  slim  and  graceful, 
the  long,  level  rays  of  light  kindling  an  aureole  of 
glory  about  her  uncovered  head.  He  sprang  from  his 
chair  and  went  out  to  meet  the  two  women. 

"Isn't  it  a  lovely  evening,  Miss  Scott?"  he  began, 
addressing  the  sunbonnet  with  due  respect. 

"Yes,  I  guess  so,"  replied  the  lady  with  mild  quer- 


236  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

ulousness.  "I've  been  makin'  jell  'most  all  day,  an' 
I'm  tired  'nough  to  set  still;  but  Hildy  here  was  d'ter- 
mined  on  — 

"  It  was  so  beautiful  out  of  doors  that  I  couldn't 
stay  in,"  cried  the  girl,  with  a  warning  squeeze  of  the 
fat  arm  linked  within  her  own. 

"  What  you  a-pinchin'  me  for  ?  "  murmured  Emeline 
crossly.  "  I  was  jest  sayin'  that  you  was  set 
on " 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  rest  awhile,  Miss  Scott?" 
asked  Immanuel  hospitably.  "  It  is  quite  a  walk  from 
the  farm." 

"  I  don't  know  as  we'd  ought  to;  I  ain't  'tended  to 
the  milk  yet,  but  I  s'pose  Hildy  — 

"Of  course  we'll  go  in,  Aunt  Em',"  said  the  girl, 
with  a  mischievous  laugh.  "We  want  to  see  Mr. 
Rossi's  housekeeping." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  Miss  Hilda,"  said  Immanuel,  "I 
fear  you'll  be  shocked  at  the  disorder.  I  am  not  a 
practised  hermit  as  yet." 

Hilda's  bright  eyes  wandered  curiously  over  the 
quaint  interior  of  the  old  room,  where  Moses  Armi- 
tage's  benign  presence  seemed  yet  to  linger.  "Why, 
it's — it's  real  pretty,"  she  said  at  last.  "  If  there  were 

ruffled   muslin    curtains   at  the   windows,    and ' 

She  stopped  short  with  a  vivid  blush.  "  I  brought 
back  the  book,"  she  concluded. 

"  And  did  you  enjoy  it?  "  asked  her  host  somewhat 
perfunctorily.  He  was  absorbed  in  the  picture  the 
girl  made  as  she  sat  by  the  empty  hearth  in  a  high- 
backed  chair.  He  wondered  vaguely  what  Moses 
Armitage  would  have  thought  of  this  young  rosy  crea 
ture. 


UNDER  THE  HICKORIES  237 

Hilda  flashed  a  displeased  look  at  her  questioner. 
"  What  if  I  did  not  like  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Why  then  I  must  try  again;  or  stay,  you  shall 
choose  for  yourself." 

To  select  a  book  from  a  crowded  shelf  is  a  most  be 
coming  task  for  a  pretty  woman.  It  brings  into  play 
such  charming  attitudes  of  a  slim  virginal  shape;  little 
rounded  wrists  and  slender  fingers  gleam  white  against 
the  sombre-backed  books;  blue  eyes  upturned  in  ear 
nest  thought  shine  jewel-like.  One  must  be  assisted 
too  in  the  choice.  Insensibly  Immanuel's  dark  head 
bent  closer  to  Hilda's  golden  one;  his  voice  fell  into  an 
intimate  murmur  as  he  showed  her  his  own  old  favor 
ites,  read  to  the  tune  of  pattering  summer  showers, 
or  the  wailing  of  winter  winds. 

Miss  Emeline  Scott's  faded  eyes  rested  kindly  upon 
the  pair.  Her  feet  were  aching  cruelly;  she  dreaded 
the  long  walk  home.  "  I  guess  we'd  better  be  goin' 
along,  deary,"  she  remonstrated  mildly;  "mother, 
she'll  be  wonderin'  where  we  be." 

"  In  just  a  minute,  aunty,"  said  Hilda,  without  turn 
ing  her  head.  "This  was  the  one  you  liked  so  much 
— 'The  King  of  the  Golden  River'  ?  Yes,  I  am  sure  I 
should  like  it  too.  It  is  a  fairy  story,  is  it  not?" 

"It  is  a  wonder  tale — yes,"  said  Immanuel.  "But 
it  is  a  parable  also.  I  shall  be  curious  to  know  what 
you  think  of  it.  I  was  always  ready  to  go  on  my 
knees  to  Ruskin  to  write  more  stories  after  I  had  fin 
ished  it." 

Hilda  had  some  vaguely  disagreeable  associations 
with  the  name  of  the  author.  She  fancied  it  might  be 
connected  with  the  tiresome  study  of  "literature,"  in 
which — thank  heaven — she  had  "passed"  long  ago. 


238  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Her  blue  eyes  told  nothing  of  all  this,  however.  "  I've 
always  been  so  fond  of  Ruskin,"  was  what  she  said 
with  enthusiasm.  Then  fearing  lest  this  unguarded 
remark  might  lead  to  embarrassing  consequences  in  a 
further  conversation,  she  turned  to  her  aunt  with  a 
pretty  little  air  of  obedience.  "Now,  aunty  dear, 
we'll  go;  I'm  so  glad  you're  rested! " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
Summer 

DURING  the  long,  sweet  days  of  midsummer 
Nature  worked  steadily  on  towards  the  per 
fecting  of  all  things  visible.  There  was  also  fore 
thought  for  other  years.  Myriads  of  creatures  lived 
and  loved  that  in  days  to  come  there  might  be  other 
myriads  to  carry  on  the  vast  cycle  of  existence.  Life 
unending,  undying,  manifested  itself  anew  in  countless 
grass  blades,  in  innumerable  leaves;  every  blade  and 
every  leaf  the  home  of  a  higher  creation  that  knew 
itself  only  as  Love  swayed  it. 

Immanuel  understood  nothing  of  the  force  which 
had  laid  hold  upon  him.  He  only  knew  that  the 
problems  and  questions  which  had  tortured  him  in  the 
past  seemed  to  have  withdrawn  themselves  into  in 
finite  distances.  The  blue-rimmed  valley  was  filled 
with  a  joyous  tranquillity.  It  would  perhaps  always 
be  summer;  he  would  always  work  with  his  hands, 
his  mind  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  That  he  should 
have  given  his  millions  to  the  service  of  the  toiling 
wretches  in  the  foul  city  yonder  appeared  to  him  the 
veriest  commonplace.  What  was  money  ?  Could 
money  buy  a  single  hour  of  this  deep-bosomed 
summer  ? 

Hilda  Wilde  was  very  far  from  being  a  finished 
coquette — save  in  imagination.  Neither  did  she  in  the 
least  resemble  the  supernaturally  lovely  heroine  of 

239 


240  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

modern  fiction,  she  who  is  wont  to  unite  under  an 
exterior  of  dazzling  beauty  all  the  loftiest  qualities  of 
human  kind.  Our  poor  Hilda  was  simply  a  very 
foolish  and  ignorant  little  maid  whose  conquests  had 
been  easily  won  among  the  apple-cheeked  schoolboys 
of  her  native  village. 

It  could  not  be  truthfully  affirmed  that  the  young 
farmer  who  labored  in  her  grandfather's  fields  filled 
out  in  any  particular  the  extraordinary  outline  which 
Miss  Hilda  had  sketched  from  a  composite  likeness  of 
the  various  heroes  of  romance.  He  had  no  "style," 
she  decided;  and  his  serious  ways  puzzled  her.  But 
the  relative  value  of  lovers  must  be  reckoned  like  all 
else  fleeting  and  uncertain  under  the  sun.  One  man 
in  the  hand,  so  to  speak,  is  worth  two  in  the  bush. 
Immanuel  Rossi  could  be  set  down  under  the  first 
category;  he  therefore  took  precedence  for  the  moment 
of  a  tolerably  long  list  of  youths  who  had  for  a  longer 
or  shorter  period  occupied  the  narrow  niche  of  Hilda's 
maiden  fancy. 

In  voluminous  letters  addressed  to  her  "most  inti 
mate  friend,"  Miss  Wilde  alluded  to  the  young  man  as 
"perfectly  fascinating."  "I  am  sure  there  is  some 
deep  mystery  about  him,"  she  declared — not  in  the 
least  believing  that  there  was.  "He  is  certainly  -very 
good-looking,  Amelia;  his  eyes  are  brown  and  they 
look  right  through  one,  and  they  are  so  expressive  and 
melancholy.  Do  you  remember  the  description  of 
Ethelbert  Montmorency  in  that  sweet  story,  '  The  Fatal 
Ring'?  His  eyes  are  exactly  like  Ethelberfs.  He  is 
ever  so  much  taller  than  Jack  Snider,  and  has  such 
broad  shoulders.  Grandfather  says  he  is  the  strongest 
man  he  ever  had  on  the  farm!  I  think  I  hear  you  say, 


SUMMER 


241 


'A  common  hired  man  ! '  But  he  is  nothing  of  the  kind, 
my  dear;  he  is  -very  well  educated  and  has  positively 
read  everything.  He  owns  a  large  farm  next  to  grand 
father's,  and  the  sweetest  little  house.  With  ruffled 
muslin  curtains  at  the  windows  and  a  few  sofa  pillows 
and  embroidered  things  it  would  look  perfectly  dear! 
Of  course  I  am  not  thinking  of  him  in  that  serious 
way!  But  1  am  sure  I  should  die  in  this  stupid  place 
if  there  was  not  some  one  to  help  pass  the  time.  Papa 
says  I  am  not  to  come  home  till  September  !  " 

Some  wiseacre  has  said  that  in  spite  of  old-time 
notions  to  the  contrary  it  is  not  sovereign  man  who 
picks  and  chooses  what  it  pleases  him  to  cull  in  "  the 
rosebud  garden  of  girls."  That  sweet,  blushing,  young 
thing,  who  scarce  dares  to  raise  her  eyes  to  yours, 
my  masculine  friend,  may,  or  may  not,  have  elected 
you  to  be  the  companion  of  her  future.  If  she  has,  you 
might  as  well  surrender  at  discretion;  the  denouement 
is  inevitable.  You  will  perchance  fancy  yourself  de 
liberating — deciding — within  the  defenses  of  your  own 
impregnable  heart,  but  in  reality  your  foolish  barriers 
are  as  gossamer  before  the  shy  glances  of  those  inno 
cent  eyes.  It  is  she  who  calmly  decides  whether  or  no 
she  wishes  to  pour  your  coffee  through  an  indefinite 
number  of  summers  and  winters.  Her  decision  more 
over  will  be  influenced  by  trifles  light  as  air.  More 
than  once  has  a  man's  future  happiness  trembled  in  the 
balance  because  his  hair  was  cut  too  short  by  a  reckless 
barber — thus  unduly  exposing  a  pair  of  ears  a  thought 
too  big  or  too  red.  The  fashion  or  color  of  a  waist 
coat  has  been  known  to  blight  a  budding  affection. 
Buttoned  shoes  have  changed  a  family  history — when 
the  lady  preferred  laced  ones.  And  a  case  is  actually 


242  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

recorded  in  feminine  annals  of  a  luckless  individual 
who  unwittingly  dashed  the  cup  of  matrimonial  bliss 
from  his  thirsting  lips  by  thoughtlessly  assuming  a 
straw  hat  with  a  Prince  Albert  coat;  and  of  yet 
another  swain  who  was  summarily  dismissed  because 
he  neglected  to  remove  his  spoon  from  his  cup  amid 
the  joyous  agitation  of  an  afternoon  tea  with  the  be 
loved  object  of  his  affections. 

Truly  one  of  the  most  curious  spectacles  in  the  world 
is  the  progress  of  what  is  termed  an  ordinary,  every 
day  love  affair.  And  perhaps  because  of  its  delicious 
folly  it  is  the  one  of  all  others  of  which  the  world  never 
grows  tired. 

Hilda  Wilde  was,  as  has  been  freely  conceded,  both 
foolish  and  ignorant;  but  her  folly  was  so  sweetly 
veiled,  her  ignorance  so  cunningly  hid  beneath  a 
dazzling  play  of  dimples  and  sparkling  eyes,  that  a 
wiser  man  than  Immanuel  Rossi  might  have  been 
excused  for  mistaking  both  for  the  loveliest  childlike 
innocence.  And  what  is  more  fascinating  than  the 
attitude  of  such  a  child  at  the  feet  of  wisdom — espe 
cially  when  wisdom  is  incarnate  in  a  young  man  in  his 
twenties,  and  the  child  is  just  emerging  from  her  teens. 
Immanuel  Rossi  presently  found  himself  very  delight 
fully  occupied  with  the  task  of  imparting  a  love  of 
classic  literature  to  a  mind  thirsting  for  information. 
The  books  on  the  dusty  shelves  of  the  little  unpainted 
house  found  their  leaves  twirled  rapidly  over  by  the 
daintiest  of  fingers ;  while  the  brightest  of  eyes  skimmed 
light  as  swallows  over  pages  wrought  out  in  painful 
solitude  by  the  mighty  minds  of  the  ages. 

"But  I  understand  it  all  so  much  better  when  you 
read  it  to  me,"  cooed  artful  Hilda. 


SUMMER  243 

And  so  it  came  about  that  the  two  might  often  be 
found  ensconced  in  some  shady  nook,  young  Rossi 
reading  aloud  from  the  pages  of  his  favorite  books. 
Just  how  much  of  the  wit  and  wisdom  of  the  sages 
found  its  way  into  the  pretty  drooped  head  of  the 
listener  it  is  hard  to  say.  During  these  hours  she  cer 
tainly  had  time  and  opportunity  to  study  the  reader, 
and  in  the  pursuit  of  this  branch  of  knowledge  she 
showed  surprising  aptitude. 

"  Your  uncle  was  a  very  wise  man  wasn't — was  he 
not?"  she  asked  one  day.  (Hilda  always  avoided 
abbreviations  when  she  talked  with  persons  whom  she 
wished  to  impress  with  her  elegance  and  culture.  She 
had  noted  and  admired  this  peculiarity  in  certain  dis 
tinguished  heroines  who  invariably  married  the  hero 
in  ablaze  of  glory.) 

"  Yes;  he  was — a  very  wise  man,"  replied  Immanuel 
sighing.  "I  hardly  know  how  to  live  without  him. 
He  was  the  only  father  I  ever  knew." 

Hilda  knew  something  of  the  strange  story  of 
Immanuel's  childhood;  but  although  she  was  intensely 
curious  on  the  subject,  she  never  quite  dared  question 
the  young  man  concerning  it.  This  feeling  of  awe 
and  hesitancy  which  invariably  crept  over  her  in  his 
presence  she  found  fascinating  to  a  surprising  degree. 
She  stared  at  his  dark  face  now  with  wide  eyes,  her 
rosy  mouth  half  open  as  though  a  question  had  halted 
in  mid  air. 

Immanuel  glanced  up  and  caught  this  puzzled,  ques 
tioning  expression  on  the  girlish  face.  "  You  are  won 
dering  at  me,"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh.  "You 
wonder  why  I  stay  here  and  waste  my  time." 

Miss  Hilda  was  not  of  the  opinion  that  time  spent  in 


244  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

her  company  was  wasted,  and  she  managed  to  con 
vey  her  idea  in  no  uncertain  terms,  yet  with  a  degree 
of  childlike  naivete  which  brought  a  smile  to  the  grave 
face  at  her  side. 

"I  was  not  wondering  why  you  were  here,"  she 
added;  "  why  should  you  not  be  here  ?  But  I  should 

like  to  know "  She  stopped  short  and  gazed 

shyly  at  him  from  under  her  long  lashes.  "  Of  course 
it  does  not  matter  to  me,"  she  concluded  with  a  bright 
blush. 

She  looked  pure  and  sweet  as  a  young  angel  in  her 
pale  rose-colored  gown  over  which  the  shifting  leaf- 
shadows  wrought  graceful  patterns,  her  round  arms 
and  shoulders  gleaming  white  through  the  diaphanous 
folds  of  muslin.  Immanuel's  brown  eyes  dwelt 
thoughtfully  on  the  warm  loveliness  of  the  downcast 
face. 

"I  wish  I  could  believe  that  my  life  was  of  any  in 
terest  to  you,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  Then  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  with  a  little  exclamation  of  dismay.  Silas 
Scott's  shrewd  face,  puckered  into  a  thousand  troubled 
wrinkles,  was  at  that  moment  protruded  from  a  near 
by  window. 

"You'd  kinder  furgot  'bout  that  'are  fodder,  hadn't 
ye,  'Manuel  ?  "  drawled  the  old  man.  "  I'd  clean  furgot 
it  myself,  havin'  dropped  off  into  a  leetle  nap  in  my 
cheer.  I'll  be  out  to  th'  barn  in  less  'an  no  time,  if 
you're  ready  to  'tend  to  it." 

Half  an  hour  later  Mr.  Scott  turned  up  a  bushel  meas 
ure  on  the  barn  floor  and  seated  himself  upon  it  with 
an  air  of  leisurely  determination.  "I'd  like  to  hev  a 
word  or  two  with  ye,  'Manuel,  afore  we  go  on  with 
the  chores,"  he  remarked,  fixing  his  small  twinkling 


SUMMER  245 

eyes  upon  the  young  man  with  some  stern 
ness. 

"  D'ye  remember  what  I  tol'  ye  'bout  my  gran'darter 
when  we  fust  struck  up  a  bargain  betwixt  us  ?  "  he 
asked  after  a  pregnant  pause.  "I  see  'at  you'd  either 
furgot  it,  or  set  it  to  one  side,  an',  thinks's  I,  I'll  go  to 
headquarters  an'  fin'  out." 

"I  love  your  granddaughter,  and  I  intend  to  marry 
her  if  she  will  have  me,"  said  Immanuel  briefly  and 
without  prefacing  stammer  or  blush.  This  deter 
mination  had  sprung  up  and  reached  full  maturity 
within  the  last  half  hour;  but  he  did  not  question  it. 
He  turned  his  glowing  face  full  upon  his  inquisitor. 
"  I  intend  to  marry  her,"  he  repeated. 

"  Hold  on,  young  man!  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Scott,  reach 
ing  out  for  an  oat  straw  which  he  proceeded  to  masti 
cate  with  deliberate  relish.  "Ye  don't  want  to  take 
the  bit  in  yer  teeth  an'  go  ahead  too  pesky  fast. 
That's  the  way  men  as  well  as  hosses  come  to  grief. 
S'pose  she'll  hev  ye,  what  then  ?" 

"  I  shall  take  care  of  her." 

"You  will,  will  ye?  An'  how'll  ye  go  at  it  ? 
You've  got  a  purty  poor  farm  an'  a  house  that's  fair  to 
middlin',  but  ye  ain't  no  reel  notion  of  farmin'.  I 
don't  advise  ye  to  perceed,  young  feller.  I  know 
Hildy;  she  ain't  good  fur  shucks  when  it  comes  to 
work.  These  'ere  rose  blows  'at  my  wife  sets  so 
much  store  by  is  good  'nough  to  put  in  a  chiny  vase. 
But  come  winter  they  don't  stan'  by  ye  like  a  pertater. 
Hildy's  somethin'  like  one  of  them  pink  blows;  she 
ain't  fur  you." 

Immanuel  hesitated,  "lhave  some  means  beside 
the  farm,"  he  said  at  last.  "  But  - 


246  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"I  guess  you  ain't  no  millionaire,  my  young  friend," 
drawled  the  old  man  ironically.  "  You  wouldn't  be 
earnin'  your  keep  on  Si'  Scott's  farm  if  you  was." 

"  That's  not  the  question,  sir,"  said  Immanuel,  stung 
to  sudden  wrath.  "  The  question  is  whether  or  no  I 
can  take  care  of  a  wife;  and  it  occurs  to  me  that  you 
are  not  the  proper  person  with  whom  to  settle  the 
matter."  He  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  barn. 

Mr.  Scott  stared  after  him,  shaking  his  head  dubi 
ously.  "  That  young  feller  ain't  cut  out  fur  a  farmer," 
he  said  ruefully;  "  he's  too  durned  hasty.  Now  1  was 
'lottin'  to  let  him  down  easy  at  the  last,  an'  tell  him  'at 
mebbe  I  could  help  him  out  with  some  stock.  But  I'm 
blamed  if  I  don't  tell  mother  to  send  Hildy  hum  to  her 
pa;  I  da'sn't  take  no  responsibility  in  the  matter." 

Immanuel  had  gone  straight  in  search  of  Hilda,  his 
mind  a  ferment  of  hope  and  fear.  "  Hilda,"  he  said 
abruptly,  "  will  you  walk  with  me  as  far  as  the  hick 
ories  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  up.  She  was  an  arrant  coward,  and 
something  in  the  young  man's  masterful  air  filled  her 
with  vague  alarms.  "You — you  are  angry  with 
me?"  she  whispered. 

"No — no,  Hilda,  I  am  not  angry  with  you;  come, 
I  must  talk  with  you." 

That  night  before  she  slept  Miss  Wilde  indited  a 
voluminous  epistle  to  her  dearest  Amelia,  in  which  she 
informed  that  young  lady  that  she  was  too  excited  to  go 
to  bed.  "Only  think,  Amelia,  he  has  proposed!  I 
was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life — yes,  and  frightened 
too.  He  was  almost  fierce  about  it;  I  can't  think  why. 
And  what  did  /  say?  you  ask.  Really,  my  dear  girl, 
I  don't  believe  I  said  very  much.  1  didn't  say  that  I 


SUMMER  247 

would  marry  him.  In  fact,  now  that  I  think  about  it, 
he  did  not  ask  me  in  so  many  words,  but  of  course  he 
meant  that.  He  wanted  to  know  if  I  could  love  him— 
if  I  would  love  him.  He  didn't  seem  to  care  about 
anything  else.  I  really  believe  I  do ;  he  is  so  fascina 
ting.  I  told  him  I  did  anyway,  and  he  was  perfectly 
satisfied.  Oh,  Amelia,  only  think  what  Jack  Snider 
would  say  if  he  knew ;  wouldn't  he  be  just  crazy  ?  " 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning  there  was  ominous 
silence.  Mrs.  Scott's  shrewd  eyes  dwelt  anxiously  on 
the  girl,  who  dimpled  and  smiled  and  blushed  with  con 
scious  triumph. 

"I've  had  a  letter  from  your  pa,  Hildy,"  observed 
the  old  lady,  following  her  grandchild  onto  the  porch 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  meal. 

"  Have  you  ?"  said  the  girl  indifferently. 

"  He  says  he  thinks  it's  'bout  time  fur  you  to  be 
comin'  home.  He's  lonesome,  your  pa  is." 

Hilda  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "He  was  anxious 
enough  to  have  me  go  away,"  she  said  coldly.  "  'Melia 
Hurd  says  he's  been  calling  on  her  stepmother  lately. 
Wouldn't  it  be  a  joke  for  'Melia  and  me  to  have  the 
same  stepmother?" 

"  I  hate  to  have  you  go,"  faltered  Mrs.  Scott.  "  We 
shall  miss  you  terribly,  dearie,  we  always  do." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go." 

"  But  if  your  pa  wants  you  should,  Hildy " 

"I  don't  care  what  he  wants.  It's  too  hot  to  go 
home  now.  Why,  he  said  I  might  stay  till  fall! " 

"There  ain't  no  use  in  mincin'  matters  that  a-way, 
mother,"  observed  Mr.  Scott,  advancing  with  an  air  of 
weighty  authority.  "  Hildy,  I  ain't  pleased  to  hev 
you  in  'Manuel's  company  so  stiddy.  'Manuel's  a  real 


248  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

nice  young  man,  but  I  don't  think  you're  cut  out  for  a 
farmer's  wife,  an'  that's  the  long  an'  the  short  of  it." 

"Why,  pa!"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Scott;  "how  do 
you  know  he's  said  anythin'  to  Hildy  ?  Perhaps  she 
ain't  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

The  girl  turned  her  face  away;  her  mouth  was  set  in 
obstinate  lines. 

"Hes  he  said  anythin'  to  ye,  girl?"  demanded  Mr. 
Scott. 

Hilda  jerked  her  elbows  petulantly.  "I  sh'd  think 
it  was  my  affair  anyway,"  she  whimpered.  "  If  I  want 
to  marry  him  I  shall,  so  there!  " 

"  Well,  you'll  go  hum  to  your  pa,  an'  let  him  say 
what  you'll  do,"  grumbled  her  grandfather.  "Though 
I  mistrust  'at  mebbe  we're  lockin'  the  barn  door  after 
the  calf's  stolen." 


CHAPTER  XXV 
A  Glittering  Temptation 

TO  Hilda's  surprise  and  discomfiture  Immanuel 
was  found  to  agree  entirely  with  the  views  of  Mr. 
Scott.  "It  will  be  far  better  for  you  to  go  home  at 
once,"  he  said  decidedly;  "I  ought  not  to  have 
spoken  until  I  had  seen  your  father.  But  1  could  not 
wait  to  find  out  whether  you  loved  me,  Hilda — my 
little  Hilda!  "  The  last  words  were  uttered  with  an 
ardor  that  caused  the  girl  to  look  up  with  the  loveliest 
blush  and  smile. 

"But  you  want  me  to  go  home,"  she  said  plain 
tively;  "  I  don't  want  to  go  home." 

"  It  is  only  for  a  little  while,"  said  Immanuel,  taking 
one  of  the  plump  white  hands  in  his.  "  I  shall  ask  your 
father  to  give  you  to  me  very  soon."  After  a  pause 
he  asked  with  an  anxious  tremor  in  his  voice:  "Will 
you  be  satisfied  to  live  in  the  little  house,  dear?  Do 
you  think — could  you  be  happy  with  me  there  ?" 

Hilda  looked  at  him  meditatively  from  under  her 
curling  lashes.  "  I  shall  have  ruffled  muslin  curtains  at 
the  windows,"  she  said  positively.  "Oh,  yes,  it  will 
be  quite  pretty;  "  she  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  If  it  could 
only  be  painted  on  the  outside — and  I  am  sure  it 
would  be  nicer  with  a  carpet  on  the  sitting-room  floor; 
don't  you  think  so — Immanuel  ?  "  She  pronounced  his 
name  for  the  first  time  with  the  sweetest  maidenly 

hesitation. 

249 


250  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"It  shall  be  just  as  you  like,  dearest,"  cried  Im- 
manuel.  "The  little  house  shall  be  painted,  papered, 

refurnished "  he  stopped  short;  the  girl  was  gazing 

at  him  with  wide,  serious  eyes. 

"But  that  would  cost  a  great  deal  of  money,  and 
you — you  are  quite  —  "  she  hesitated,  the  rose  bright 
ening  in  her  soft  cheeks. 

"  But  you  love  me,  Hilda — dearest  Hilda,  even  if  I  am 
quite — quite  poor!"  murmured  Immanuel;  there  was 
deep  exultation  in  his  voice — his  eyes  as  they  rested 
on  the  girl  were  filled  with  tears.  "  I  shall  never  for 
get,  dear,  that  you  were  ready  to  be  happy  with  me  in 
a  poor  little  house,  on  a  lonely  country  road.  I  have 
not  deserved  such  happiness!  " 

Hilda  moved  her  shoulders  ever  so  little.  "  But  can 
you  really  have  the  house  fixed  as  you  said?"  she 
asked  in  a  bright,  hard  voice.  "  It  would  certainly  be 
pleasanter." 

Immanuel  was  too  deep  in  his  dream  to  notice  either 
the  shrug  or  the  tone.  "  I  have  money  enough  to  give 
you  a  comfortable  home,  dear  Hilda,"  he  answered 
gently.  "Then  I  shall  work — yes,  I  shall  work  hard 
for  you." 

Hilda  was  regarding  him  intently;  she  was  filled  with 
curiosity,  and  longed  to  ask  a  hundred  questions,  but 
that  strange  hesitancy  stilled  her  tongue.  She  won 
dered  at  herself  a  little  because  of  it.  "1  don't  see  why  I 
shouldn't  know  all  about  him  now,"  she  said  to  herself. 
If  she  had  been  told  at  that  moment  that  she  did 
not  in  the  least  degree  understand  the  soul  that  gazed 
at  her  so  yearningly  from  out  her  lover's  brown  eyes, 
she  would  have  resented  the  idea  as  absurd.  She  was 
listening  to  him  as  he  explained  his  plans  of  seeing  her 


A  GLITTERING  TEMPTATION         251 

father;  her  attitude,  as  she  sat  with  drooping  lids  and 
sweetly  pensive  air  of  compliance  betraying  nothing  of 
the  thoughts  within.  A  single  word  in  a  carelessly 
dropped  phrase  caught  her  wondering  attention. 
"The  city? "she  echoed,  her  blue  eyes  lighting  up 
with  surprise.  "  Did  you  say  you  were  going  to  the 
city:  oh,  I  wish  I  could  go!  " 

"Yes,  I  must  go  for  a  little  while,"  said  Immanuel 
frowning.  "But  it  will  not  be  for  long;  October,  I 
hope,  will  see  us  at  home."  He  uttered  the  last  word 
with  rapture. 

"I  wish  I  could  go  to  the  city,"  repeated  Hilda. 

"What  do  you  wish  to  see  in  the  city,  little 
one?" 

"  Oh,  the  stores  and  the  houses  and  the  people — the 
beautifully  dressed  ladies.  I  wish  —  "  there  was  a 
suspicion  of  a  pout  on  the  rosy  lips,  as  the  girl  stopped 
short,  eying  the  grave  face  bent  over  her.  "  You  are 
not  pleased  because  I  wish  to  go  to  the  city!  "  she  cried. 
"I  have  never  been,  though  papa  has  promised  me 
over  and  over  again.  There  are  so  many  things  to  see. 
I  do  want  to  go!  " 

Immanuel's  face  brightened  into  a  smile  "You 
shall  go  to  the  city  with  me,  Hilda,"  he  said.  "  You  are 
are  right;  there  are  many  things  to  see — things  beauti 
ful  and  things  terrible.  You  shall  help  me  to  make 
the  terrible  things  beautiful,  dearest — dearest!"  He 
bent  nearer  and  she  lifted  her  ripe  lips  to  his  like  a 
child. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  murmured,  twisting 
her  white  fingers;  "  what  shall  I  help  you  to  do  ?" 

"Thatis  a  long  story,"  he  said  smiling.  "My  wife 
shall  hear  it."  He  lifted  the  little  hand  to  his  lips. 


252  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"  Thank  God  for  your  love!  "  he  murmured,  and  drew 
her  to  his  heart  in  the  first  long  embrace. 

Hilda  Wilde  went  home  to  her  father's  house  the 
next  day,  and  young  Rossi  betook  himself  to  the  city, 
where  as  it  may  be  imagined  a  mass  of  accumulated 
business  awaited  his  attention.  He  devoted  himself  to 
his  task  with  a  light  heart  which  betrayed  itself  in 
tokens  many. 

"You  are  looking  exceedingly  well,  my  dear  Mr. 
Rossi,"  observed  Mr.  Smalley,  with  almost  paternal 
interest.  "  I  am  told  that  you  passed  some  weeks  in 
Newport  early  in  the  season.  We — ah,  regret  that  you 
did  not  see  fit  to  establish  yourself  there.  But  per 
haps "  Mr.  Smalley  paused  and  coughed  behind 

his  hand.  It  hardly  seemed  possible  to  him  that  his 
client  could  have  met  with  a  refusal  at  the  hands  of  Miss 
Livingstone;  yet  she  was  a  high-bred  girl,  and  young 
Rossi  was,  after  all,  nouveau  riche,  and  quite  possibly 
stubborn  and  maladroit  in  his  love-making  as  in  his  in 
vestments. 

"I  am  going  to  be  married,"  said  the  young  man 
bluntly. 

"Ah,  indeed!  Well,  well!"  cried  the  lawyer.  "I 
congratulate  you,  I  do  indeed,  my  dear  sir!  But  your 
announcement  is — er — not  wholly  unexpected.  I  may 
say  that  your  choice  has  fallen  upon  a  young  lady  of 
the  most  unexceptional  connections.  You  could  not, 
in  short,  have  done  better.  I  am  delighted!" 

"  You  do  not  know  the  young  lady  I  hope  to  make 
my  wife,"  said  Immanuel  coolly.  "I  agree  with  you 
entirely  though;  I  am  to  be  congratulated;  I  could  not 
have  done  better." 

"May  I  ask — is  it  permissible  to  enquire,  who  the 


A  GLITTERING  TEMPTATION         253 

fortunate  young  woman  is  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Smalley  with 
some  perturbation.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  sure. 
There  were  rumors,  you  know." 

"I  am  to  marry  Miss  Hilda  Wilde  in  the  autumn," 
said  Immanuel,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  old  lawyer's 
dismayed  face.  "She  is  a  poor  girl;  she  believes  I 
am  a  poor  farmer.  I  do  not  intend  to  undeceive  her 
for  the  present." 

"Ah,  indeed,  very  romantic  and  interesting,  I  am 
sure,"  said  Mr.  Smalley  with  laborious  politeness. 
"The  young  lady  is  to  be  congratulated, — er,  yes,  cer 
tainly.  And  what,  may  I  ask,  are  your  plans  for  the 
future  ?  You  will  hardly  continue  your  present  style 
of  living  after  your  marriage — eh  ?  There  is  that  Fifth 
Avenue  property  still  to  be  had,  I  am  told,  and  at  a 
very  reasonable  figure." 

"  I  propose  to  repair  and  refurnish  my  uncle's  farm 
house;  we  shall  live  there." 

"Hum — ah;  and  will  the  young  lady  be  satisfied 
with  your  plans  for  her  future,  do  you  think?" 

"She  loves  me,"  said  Immanuel  simply. 

The  lawyer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Ah,  well, 
you  will  of  course  do  as  you  choose,"  he  said  dryly. 
"You  may  however  think  differently  later  on.  The 
young  lady  herself  may  have  views  of  life  which — er 
—may  tend  to  modify — yes,  to — ah — modify  your 
somewhat  extreme  ideas." 

"You  do  not  know  her,  sir,"  said  Immanuel  with 
some  heat. 

"I  have  not  the  pleasure  to  be  sure,"  admitted  Mr. 
Smalley,  civilly.  "But  if  I  might  be  allowed  I  would 

say  that "  He  stopped  short  and  tightened  his  thin 

lips.  He  was  about  to  suggest  from  the  depths  of 


254  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

his  own  experience  that  possibly  his  client  might 
chance  upon  unexplored  territory  in  his  wife's  char 
acter  in  the  course  of  his  matrimonial  journeyings;  but 
he  refrained.  "  He'll  find  it  out  soon  enough,  poor 
devil,"  he  told  himself,  after  the  young  gentleman  had 
taken  his  leave.  Then  for  some  unexplained  reason 
he  laughed  aloud  in  the  silence  of  his  private  office.  It 
was  an  odd  sound;  it  actually  caused  the  clerk  just 
outside  the  door  to  drop  his  pen  and  listen  open- 
mouthed  for  the  space  of  two  minutes. 

Miss  Wilde  passed  some  very  enjoyable  days  after 
her  return  to  the  paternal  roof.  For  one  thing  there 
were  numerous  confidential  conversations  with  Miss 
Amelia  Hurd,  in  the  course  of  which  Hilda  displayed 
an  astonishing  knowledge  of  Immanuel  Rossi's  char 
acter.  "He  is  the  most  serious  person  in  the  world, 
"Melia,"  she  said  impressively;  "he  looks  at  every 
thing  in  a  different  way  from  any  one  else.  Sometimes 
I  think  it  is  just  the  least  bit  tiresome;  or  it  would  be 
if  he  was  not  so  handsome  and  so  perfectly  fasci 
nating." 

Miss  Hurd  was  a  tall,  ungainly  young  woman,  with 
thin  hair  of  no  particular  color,  a  rough  skin  and  pale 
greenish  eyes.  She  regarded  Hilda  with  a  feeling 
which  was  somewhat  uncertainly  compounded  of 
,  envy  and  warm  admiration.  Having  no  lovers  of  her 
own,  she  had  attached  herself  with  ardor  to  the  heart 
fortunes  of  her  friend,  and  alternately  thrilled  and 
chilled  at  the  capricious  will  of  the  beauty,  like  the 
mercury  in  the  tube  of  a  thermometer.  "My,  I  wish 
I  could  see  him!  "  she  murmured.  "Haven't  you  got 
his  photo,  Hil'  ?  " 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Hilda,  with  a  yawn.    "  I  guess 


A  GLITTERING  TEMPTATION         255 

I  can  endure  it,  though,  till  I  see  him."  She  looked 
down  reflectively  at  her  small  hands.  "I  wonder  if 
he'll  buy  me  an  engagement  ring?" 

"  Of  course  he  will !  "  cried  Miss  Hurd.  "  I  do  hope 
it'll  be  a  di'mon'.  Wouldn't  that  be  elegant  ?  But 
perhaps  he  can't  afford  it;  di'mon's  are  awfully 
expensive." 

"I  don't  believe  he'll  ever  think  of  such  a  thing," 
said  Hilda,  pouting.  "  He  doesn't  seem  to  notice 
clothes — or  anything  like  that.  All  he  cares  about  is 
just  books,  and — well,  yes,  I  guess  he  does  care  some 
about  me  !" 

"Plenty  of  other  folks  do  too,"  said  Miss  Hurd, 
nodding  and  blinking  mysteriously.  "1  saw  Jack 
Snider  yesterday,  and  I  told  him  you'd  come  home. 
He- 

"Oh,  'Melia,"  interrupted  Hilda,  with  an  anxious 
pucker  of  her  white  forehead,  "I  do  hope  you  didn't 
say  anything  to  Jack  about  him.  I  don't  want  any 
body  to  know — not  anybody!  " 

"Why  not?"  inquired  Miss  Hurd,  with  a  jerk  of 
her  angular  elbows.  "You  can't  have  all  the  men  to 
yourself,  miss.  But  I  didn't  tell  him,  poor  fellow. 
Say,  he's  handsome  enough  for  me!  I  don't  believe 
that  Immanuel  What's-his-name  can  hold  a  candle  to 
Jack!" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Hilda  reflectively.  "  He — he's 
different.  What  did  Jack  say  ?  " 

"He's  coming  to  see  you.  And  oh,  Hil',  what  do 
you  think;  his  uncle's  took  him  into  the  business  and 
he's  making  lots  of  money." 

Hilda's  blue  eyes  rested  quietly  upon  her  crocheting; 
she  paused  to  count  ten  stitches;  then  she  said  with 


256  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

a  curl  of  her  red  lips,  '•  How  do  you  happen  to  know 
so  much  about  Jack  Snider's  affairs,  'Melia  ?" 

"He  told  me,"  replied  that  young  woman,  biting 
her  nails,  with  an  envious  glance  at  the  white  fingers 
which  were  flying  in  and  out  of  the  blue  wool. 
"  He'll  tell  you  about  it,  fast  enough;  he's  crazy  after 
you,  Hil'." 

Hilda  sighed  gently;  her  face  with  its  soft  babyish 
curves  of  pink  and  white  looked  sweet  and  pensive  as 
some  youthful  Madonna's.  "I  suppose  he  is,"  she 
said  plaintively. 

The  same  evening  Miss  Wilde  entertained  Mr. 
Snider  in  the  parlor  of  the  paternal  residence  after  the 
approved  fashion  of  the  countryside;  that  is  to  say, 
the  door  into  the  sitting-room  where  her  father  was 
dozing  over  his  weekly  paper  was  tightly  closed,  and 
the  dun-colored  window  shades  were  closely  drawn. 
The  two  young  people  sat  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
room;  Hilda  as  usual  drooping  her  pretty  face  over 
some  intricate  embroidery,  the  young  man  sitting  bolt 
upright,  apparently  absorbed  in  painful  consciousness 
of  his  abnormally  high  shirt-collar,  above  which  his 
solemn  round  face  appeared  like  the  knob  of  a  cane. 

Mr.  Snider  possessed  very  black  hair  plastered  down 
in  oily  curves  on  either  side  of  a  bulging  forehead;  his 
black  eyes  and  his  black  mustache  pleasantly  diversi 
fying  a  countenance  otherwise  monotonously  red  and 
white.  He  gazed  at  his  hostess  with  obvious  anxiety. 
"I  s'pose  you  had  an  awful  good  time  up  to  your 
uncle's,"  he  observed  at  length,  clearing  his  throat  and 
throwing  one  leg  over  the  other  in  a  futile  attempt  to 
appear  at  elegant  ease. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  cooed  Hilda,  turning  her  pretty  head 


A  GLITTERING  TEMPTATION         257 

so  as  to  bring  into  view  a  smartly  tied  bow  of  blue 
ribbon.  "It  was  real  lonesome  up  there,"  she  added, 
with  a  reminiscent  smile. 

"Was  it?"  said  Mr.  Snider  joyously.  "Well, 
you're  home  now  anyway.  I  guess  we'll  be  having 
some  pretty  gay  times  here  this  fall," — after  a  pause 
during  which  his  black  eyes  rested  uninterruptedly  on 
the  blue  bow  against  the  yellow  hair,  "picnics  an' 
things,  an'  riding  maybe.  I've  got  a  horse." 

"Have  you?"  said  Hilda  dimpling.  "How  nice;  I 
love  to  ride." 

"Will  you — that  is,  would  you  ride  with  me?" 
stammered  the  young  fellow,  blushing  violently. 
"  I've  got  a  side-bar  buggy  with  green  cushions;  it's  a 
peach,  I  c'n  tell  you!  " 

"I  don't  know  as  I  shall  be  here  all  the  fall,"  said 
Hilda  meditatively.  The  pink  deepened  deliciously  in 
her  round  cheeks.  "Maybe  I'll  be  going  away  again 
in — in  October." 

"Did  'Melia  Hurd  tell  you  I'd  gone  into  business 
with  Uncle  John?" — after  a  long  silence  in  which  he 
shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda,  smiling  with 'a  pretty  show  of 
friendly  interest.  "How  very  nice  for  you,  Jack." 
She  pronounced  the  last  word  with  just  the  sweetest 
little  air  of  reserve. 

"Oh,  Hilda,"  breathed  the  young  man,  "I  want  to 
tell  you;  I'm  making  most  a  thousand  dollars  a  year, 
an'  Uncle  John's  awful  good  to  me;  he  says  if  I  should 
want  to  build  a  new  house  this  fall  he'd  give  me  a 
nice  lot  off  his  side-yard.  There  ain't  a  prettier  place 
in  town." 

Hilda  looked  up,   her  blue  eyes  full  of    interest. 


258  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"  Are  you  going  to  build  a  new  house?"  she  asked. 
"  How  lovely! " 

"I — I'm  never  going  to  build  it,  Hilda,  unless  you'll 
promise  to  live  in  it  with  me  when  it's  done.  Say, 
you  don't  know  how  awfully  sweet  you  are,  Hilda! 
I — I  love  you  so  I  can't  tell  you!  " 

Hilda  made  no  reply.  She  was  thinking  of  the 
shabby  little  house  on  the  back  hill-road.  Even  with 
ruffled  muslin  curtains  and  a  coat  of  new  paint  it 
would  hardly  compare  with  a  new  house  on  the  main 
street  of  the  village. 

"If  you'll  only  consent,  I'll  be  so  awfully  happy," 
Mr.  Snider  was  saying  anxiously.  "You  shall  have 
your  say  just  how  the  house  is  to  be — bay  windows, 
don't  you  know,  and  everything,  Colonial  or  Queen 
Anne  or  any  way  at  all;  I  don't  care  as  long  as  you're 
pleased,  Hilda!" 

The  young  man's  words  fairly  tumbled  over  one 
another;  he  had  risen  from  his  chair  and  was  stooping 
over  the  little  figure  in  the  rocking-chair.  "Hilda," 
he  whispered  imploringly,  "won't  you  say  yes?" 

"Please  sit  down,  Jack,"  said  the  girl  composedly. 
"I  can't  think  when  you  worry  me  so."  Her  calm, 
bright  eyes  rested  curiously  on  the  flushed  counte 
nance  above  the  high  collar.  It  was  certainly  "dif 
ferent"  from  the  grave  face,  alight  with  incompre 
hensible  emotion,  which  had  bent  toward  her  for  the 
last  time  under  the  shade  of  the  hickories  on  the  back 
hill-road.  She  had  received  a  letter  from  Immanuel  in 
the  evening  mail;  it  was  in  her  pocket  at  this  very 
moment.  She  had  found  it  like  the  writer's  conversa 
tion  just  the  least  bit  tiresome. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  answer  me,  Hilda  ?  " 


A  GLITTERING  TEMPTATION         259 

"I  can't — to-night,"  she  said  rather  crossly.  "I — I 
must  think.  It  is  such  a  serious  thing  to  get  married, 
Jack,"  she  added,  with  sweet  seriousness. 

The  young  fellow  stared  at  her  in  an  agony  of 
adoration.  "  You — you  are  so  lovely!  "  he  blurted  out 
at  last. 

Hilda  shrugged  her  shoulders.  The  letter  in  her 
pocket  contained  similar  statements.  She  had  found 
indeed  so  singular  a  unanimity  of  opinion  on  this 
point  that  it  no  longer  carried  very  much  weight.  It 
had  become,  so  to  speak,  axiomatic,  and  therefore 
more  or  less  wearisome  when  repeated  too  often; 
though  of  course  as  a  fact  to  be  reckoned  with  it 
entered  largely  into  the  problem  of  life  as  now  pre 
sented  to  her  attention.  "  I  think  you  had  better 
go  now,"  she  said  gently;  "this  has  been  so  unex 
pected." 

"Oh,  Hilda,  you  have  always  known  me,  and  that 
I  cared  for  nobody  but  you!  Couldn't  you  — 

"Not  to-night,  I  must  have  time  to  think  it  over." 

"Well,  I  want  to  tell  you  one  thing,  Hilda, — though 
of  course  it  won't  make  any  difference  in  what  you 
think  of  me.  But  your  father  might  like  me  better 
even  if  you  didn't  care.  Uncle  John  has  nobody  but 
me  since  Aunt  Sarah  died,  and  he  is  going  to  leave  me 
all  his  money.  1  guess  it's  as  much  as  ten  thousand 
dollars." 

"Ten  thousand  dollars!  "  repeated  Hilda,  opening 
her  blue  eyes  to  their  widest.  "Why,  you'll  be  rich, 
Jack!" 

"  I'll  be  poorer  'an  Job's  turkey  if  I  don't  get  you," 
affirmed  Mr.  Snider  with  a  beseeching  look.  "  I  don't 
care  a  bit  for  money  except  to  buy  pretty  things  for 


260  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

you."  His  voice  fell  to  a  whisper.  "Say,  I've  been 
saving  up  ever  so  long  to  buy  you  a  ring,  Hilda;  I  was 
most  sure  you'd  say  yes.  If  you  won't  get  mad  I'll 
show  it  to  you." 

The  girl  broke  into  a  little  unsteady  laugh.  "  Why, 
Jack,  how  perfectly  absurd  you  are!  "she  exclaimed 
in  a  somewhat  high-pitched  voice.  "You  ought  not 
to  take  things  for  granted  like  that!  I  never  encour 
aged  you  a  single  bit,  I'm  sure.  I'm  not  mad  though, 
why  should  I  be  ?  Let  me  see  the  ring." 

Mr.  Snider  produced  a  blue  satin  case  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket  and  proffered  it  with  a  furious  blush. 
"  I  wisht  you'd  let  me  fit  it  on  your  dear  little  finger, 
Hilda,"  he  whispered  huskily. 

"It's  a  diamond!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "Why, 
Jack  Snider,  what  a  beauty!  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"I  was  down  to  Noo  York  whilst  you  was  gone; 
I  got  it  there.  Do  you  like  it  ?  Will  you  wear  it  ? 
Don't  you  like  me  just  a  little,  dear  ?  " 

Hilda  was  turning  the  glittering  thing  from  side  to 
side;  she  seemed  fascinated  with  the  scarlet  and  azure 
fires  that  shot  out  from  the  small  white  stone  in  its 
rather  showy  setting.  "  And  to  think  you  bought  it 
for  me!  It  must  have  cost  a  lot  of  money,  Jack." 

"I  paid  a  hundred  dollars  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Snider 
proudly.  "  But  that's  only  a  patch  on  what  I'll  do  fur 
you  if  you'll  only  have  me,  Hilda!  " 

The  girl  thrust  the  ring  into  its  satin  nest  with  trem 
bling  fingers.  "I — I — can't  tell  you  to-night,  Jack," 
she  said  piteously.  "  I— I  am  not— I  must  think,  and 
— please  go  away  now!  " 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer 

THE  girl  had  a  conscience  after  all,  though  it  was 
a  tiny  undeveloped  spark.  She  was  very,  -very 
unhappy  (she  assured  herself)  after  Mr.  Snider  had 
taken  his  leave.  She  was  aware  in  a  dim,  uncertain 
way  that  the  impending  decision  involved  issues  which 
loomed  vast  and  unsubstantial  before  her  frightened 
eyes.  "Dear — dear,"  she  sighed,  twisting  her  white 
forehead  into  unbecoming  wrinkles,  "I  wish  I  knew 
what  to  do."  After  awhile  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
might  call  the  divine  assistance  into  her  counsels.  To 
this  end  she  pulled  out  her  dusty  little  Bible  and  opened 
it  with  trembling  fingers.  "  I'll  just  read  the  first  verse 
I  see,"  she  said,  "  and  take  it  for  a  sign.  'Melia  says 
that's  the  way  she  always  does  when  she  can't  think 
what  to  do." 

She  read  and  wondered,  "And  they  put  the  two 
wreathen  chains  of  gold  in  the  two  rings  on  the  ends 
of  the  breast-plate."  "Two  chains  of  gold,"  she  said 
aloud,  "  and  two  rings!" 

She  marked  the  verse  and  the  chapter  with  red  ink 
for  further  reference,  her  mind  dwelling  confusedly  on 
the  two  rings.  They  might  easily  signify  an  engage 
ment  ring  and  a  wedding  ring — on  the  two  ends  of 
the  breastplate.  She  wondered  what  a  breastplate 
was.  'Melia  would  know.  After  all  the  matter  re- 

261 


262  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

solved  itself  into  a  series  of  simple  questions.  Which 
man  was  the  handsomest,  and  which  the  most  agree 
able  ?  After  a  short  period  of  reflection  she  told  her 
self  that  this  was  perhaps  immaterial.  Immanuel  was 
"  fascinating  "  and  Jack  was  "  nice."  She  would  allow 
this  to  pass.  She  had  already  decided  that  a  new 
house — Queen  Anne  with  a  steep  red  roof,  or  Colonial 
with  yellow  and  white  paint — would  be  vastly  prefer 
able  as  a  place  of  residence  to  the  shabby  little  cottage 
on  the  back  hill-road.  "  It  would  be  awfully  lonely 
there  in  winter,"  she  thought  with  a  shiver.  Her 
grandfather  had  said  she  was  not  cut  out  for  a  farmer's 
wife.  She  was  sure  she  was  not.  She  simply  could 
not  imagine  herself  straining  milk,  washing  pans  or 
making  butter.  She  wondered  if  Immanuel  would 
expect  her  to  do  these  things. 

She  grew  somewhat  sleepy  at  this  stage  in  her  re 
flections.  It  was  all  very,  very  tiresome.  She  would 
go  to  bed,  and  perhaps  in  the  morning  she  would  be 
able  to  decide  just  what  was  best. 

There  are  visionary  individuals  who  declare  that 
while  our  bodies  lie  wrapped  in  unconsciousness  our 
sleepless  spirits  wander  free,  and  that  these  wander 
ings  conform  themselves  to  the  last  conscious  reflec 
tions  of  the  regnant  mind  before  it  lays  down  its 
sceptre  for  the  night.  Be  that  as  it  may  the  whole 
matter  appeared  absurdly  easy  to  Hilda  when  her  blue, 
fringed  eyes  flew  open  the  next  morning.  She  pre 
sented  a  ravishing  picture  as  she  lay  on  her  white  pil 
lows,  one  white  arm  thrown  up  over  her  curly  head,  her 
lips  faintly  smiling,  the  curves  of  her  fresh  tinted 
cheeks  as  exquisitely  perfect  as  those  of  a  half-opened 
rose. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  263 

"  I  shall  marry  Jack,"  she  said  aloud. 

Immanuel  must  be  informed  of  her  decision.  This 
would  be  a  somewhat  unpleasant  duty,  though  Hilda 
regarded  the  breaking  of  an  engagement  as  very 
simple — indeed  she  looked  upon  it  as  quite  a  matter  of 
course.  "I  shall  be  happier  with  Jack,"  she  said  to 
herself  comfortably.  "  Besides,  everybody  breaks  en 
gagements, — that  is  everybody  who  is  pretty  and  has 
plenty  of  lovers.  Amelia  Hurd  would  not  dare.  If 
she  should  succeed  in  getting  one  man  she  would  be 
lucky."  These  reflections  passed  in  a  casual  current 
while  the  young  lady  was  laying  out  divers  sheets  of 
tinted  paper  on  which  to  inscribe  the  inexorable  de 
crees  of  fate.  Pale  violet,  she  decided,  with  violet 
ink,  was  best  suited  to  the  subject  matter  in  hand. 

"Poor  fellow,"  she  sighed,  "I  am  really  awfully 
sorry  for  him.  But  I  know  I  shall  be  happier  with 
Jack.  Jack  isn't  a  bit  tiresome,  and  I'm  not  afraid  of 
him.  I  know  exactly  how  to  manage  Jack." 

It  took  a  long  time  to  write  the  letter;  a  number  of 
crumpled  sheets  of  violet  paper  found  their  way  in 
small  pieces  to  the  waste-basket  before  the  square  en 
velope  was  finally  sealed  and  directed. 

No  young  lady,  acquainted  with  the  rules  of  polite 
correspondence,  will  suppose  that  in  this  epistle  Hilda 
Wilde  was  guilty  of  unmaidenly  frankness.  Oh,  no, 
she  regretted  (sweetly)  that  she  was  so  young.  When 
one  was  so  young  it  was  difficult  to  know  one's  own 
mind.  She  had  supposed  that  she  loved  Immanuel; 
but  since  she  had  come  home  she  had  thought  long 
and  seriously.  She  wondered  how  she  could  have 
made  such  a  mistake  as  to  suppose  that  she  could  be 
happy  in  the  country.  Grandpapa  had  warned  her, 


264  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

and  so  had  dear  grandmama  and  Aunt  Emeline.  Why 
had  she  not  suffered  herself  to  be  guided  by  those 
older  and  wiser  than  herself  ?  She  was  sure  she  did 
not  know,  but  it  was  probably  due  to  her  dislike  of 
causing  pain  to  others.  ("  When  I  saw  how  you  loved 
me  I  could  not  bear  to  disappoint  you.")  She  hoped 
that  he  would  forgive  her  and  think  kindly  of  her. 
She  would  always  remember  him,  et  cetera,  et  cetera. 
She  signed  herself,  "  Your  broken-hearted  Hilda." 
This  hyphened  adjective  might  console  the  unfortunate 
lover,  the  girl  reflected  vaguely,  and  drew  a  sigh  of  re 
lief  as  she  laid  a  blotter  on  the  last  word. 

On  a  sheet  of  cheerful  pink  paper  she  then  inscribed 
a  few  words  which  would,  she  knew,  bring  Mr. 
Snider  to  her  side  with  joyful  alacrity.  These  two 
fateful  missives  then  traveled  in  company  to  the 
village  post-office,  clasped  in  the  daintiest  of  little 
white  hands.  The  little  hand  dropped  them  softly 
into  the  post-box,  where  they  lay,  the  pink  envelope 
and  the  violet,  undisturbed  for  several  hours. 

Hilda  was  setting  the  last  unhurried  stitches  in  a 
bunch  of  blue  forget-me-nots  which  adorned  her  latest 
"centrepiece,"  when  Miss  Amelia  Hurd  broke  sud 
denly  upon  the  quiet  of  her  maiden  meditations.  Miss 
Hurd  was  flushed  and  breathless — which  was  exceed 
ingly  unbecoming,  thought  Hilda  disapprovingly.  She 
wondered  how  she  should  feel  if  she  had  to  survey 
such  a  purplish  nose  as  Amelia's  every  morning  in  her 
mirror.  The  reflection  brought  a  pitying  smile  to  her 
lips.  "Do  take  a  fan,  'Melia  dear,"  she  said  kindly, 
"you  look  so  warm." 

"I  hurried,"  gasped  Miss  Hurd,  laying  her  bony 
hand  on  her  angular  breast.  "I  was  so  excited! 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  265 

Read  that,  Hilda  Wilde,  and  then  tell  me  if  you  aren't 
the  luckiest  girl  alive!  I  thought  I  should  die  when  I 
found  it!  It  came  wrapped  round  a  jar  of  butter." 

"It"  was  a  piece  of  soiled  and  crumpled  news 
paper;  dainty  Hilda  touched  it  gingerly.  "What  in 
the  world  is  it?"  she  asked  composedly.  "Dear 
me,  how  excited  you  get,  Melia;  I  never  allow  myself 
to " 

"  Read  it!"  reiterated  Miss  Hurd,  almost  fiercely. 

Thus  urged,  Hilda's  blue  eyes  began  to  travel  down 
the  page;  her  friend  watched  her  face  with  sparkling 
eyes. 

"My,  wasn't  I  struck  all  of  a  heap  when  I  saw  his 
name! "  exclaimed  Miss  Hurd;  "I  was  just  going  to 
stuff  that  paper  into  the  kitchen  stove,  when  the  word 
Rossi  caught  my  eye.  Then  I  looked  for  the  head 
lines,  and  there  it  was,  '  Remarkable  Caprices  of  a 
Multi-millionaire! '  You  could  have  knocked  me  down 
with  a  feather!  Isn't  it  rich,  Hil'  ?" 

Hilda's  composed  face  had  been  undergoing  an  as 
tonishing  transformation,  while  Miss  Hurd  was  pour 
ing  out  these  disjointed  sentences.  Her  blue  eyes, 
wide  with  a  sort  of  still  terror,  were  fixed  upon  the 
page;  her  cheeks  had  faded  rapidly  from  pink  to  white, 
and  from  white  to  a  curious  bluish  tint. 

"Why,  Hilda  Wilde,  what's  the  matter?  Aren't 
you  pleased  ?  I  do  believe  you're  going  to  faint.  It 
was  too  sudden;  I'll  just  run  and  get  the  camphor 
bottle.  Lean  on  me,  do,  that's  a  dear!  To  think  of 
my  being  the  most  intimate  friend  of  a  millionairess! 
You'll  be  going  to  New  York,  and  — 

"Let  me  alone;  let  me  alone,  'Melia,"  gasped  Hilda, 
pushing  her  friend  away  with  a  vigor  which  caused 


266  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

that  young  woman  to  stare  with  fresh  amazement. 
"You  stay  here!  Don't  you  follow  me!  I've  got  to 
go!  Oh,  what  shall  I  do!  " 

Miss  Hurd  turned  to  the  window  just  in  time  to  see 
a  flying  cloud  of  pink  drapery  hurl  itself  out  of  the 
front  gate.  "Well,  upon  my  word,  I  believe  that  girl 
has  gone  stark  crazy.  Did  you  ever! " 

She  turned  with  a  foolish  smile  and  picked  up  the 
piece  of  newspaper  which  had  caused  so  strange  an 
ebullition  of  energy  in  the  tranquil  Hilda.  "It's  him 
sure,"  she  affirmed  ungrammatically,  as  her  eyes 
devoured  the  close  print.  "Romantic  history  of  a 
Dives,  born  a  pauper — adopted  by  uncle — educated  at 
Cambridge — passed  quiet  life  unaware  of  his  good 
fortune — astonishes  New  York  with  revolutionary 
plan  to  abolish  slums — said  to  be  summering  in  Sul 
livan  County  near  a  village  called  Tacitus  Four- 
Corners." 

"Of  course  it's  him!"  she  repeated.  Her  eyes 
dwelt  lingeringly  on  the  final  words  of  the  paragraph. 
"In  person  Mr.  Rossi  is  a  magnificent  specimen  of 
American  manhood;  his  dark  complexion  and  eyes 
reveal  the  Italian  strain  in  his  make  up,  while  his  tall, 
athletic  figure  gives  evidence  that  in  his  case  the  best 
blood  of  three  nations  has  united — the  late  Mr.  Armi- 
tage  being,  we  believe,  of  English  birth." 

Hilda  Wilde  was  making  her  way  to  the  post-office 
as  fast  as  her  trembling  limbs  would  carry  her.  She 
had  but  one  thought,  and  that  was  undoubtedly  a  very 
foolish  one.  "If  I  can  only  get  those  letters!  "  The 
girl  presented  so  pitiable  an  appearance  as  she  showed 
her  ashen  face  at  the  little  square  window  of  the  office 
that  the  old  postmaster  took  off  his  glasses  and  wiped 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  267 

them  before  he  answered  the  question  she  could  hardly 
bring  herself  to  utter. 

"I  declare  I  hardly  know  ye,  Hildy,"  he  said  kindly; 
"you  ain't  lookin'  very  well.  Nothin'  out  of  the  way, 
I  hope,  to  your  house  ?  " 

Hilda  pulled  herself  together  with  a  heroic  effort. 
"No,"  she  said,  moistening  her  dry  lips.  "But  I 
should  like  to  know  if  the  mail  has  gone  out  yet." 

"  No,  not  yit;  I  jes'  got  it  into  the  bag.  Job's  comin' 
now  to  git  it.  Why  ?  you  got  a  letter  you  want  to  git 
off  in  a  hurry  ?  I  don't  mind  openin'  it  fur  ye,  seein' 
it's  you." 

"Will  you  open  it?  Oh,  Mr.  Winters,  how  kind 
you  are!  Please  do!  " 

"Wall,  han'  over  your  letter,  missy,  an'  we'll  see. 
I'll  bet  it's  to  one  o'  them  beaux  o'  yourn;  you  guess  he 
can't  wait  till  nex'  mail — eh  ?  " 

"No,  it  isn't  that;  it's  only  a  letter — two  letters — I 
put  in  the  box  this  morning;  I've  changed  my  mind 
about  something  and  I  want  to  get  them  back.  I  must 
get  them  back!  " 

The  postmaster  paused  with  his  hand  on  the  lock. 
He  shook  his  head  slowly  and  screwed  up  his  tobacco- 
stained  lips.  "I'm  sorry  I  can't  'commodate  ye,"  he 
said  with  professional  dignity;  "but  we  can't  tamper 
with  the  U.  S.  mails  on  no  'count." 

"  But  it's  only  my  two  letters,"  pleaded  Hilda  tremu 
lously.  "  One  is  in  a  pink  envelope  and  one  in  a  blue; 
I  could  get  them  in  just  a  minute.  It  wouldn't  do  any 
harm."  Her  color  had  come  back  now,  and  her  eyes 
were  never  more  dangerous  in  their  soft  brightness. 

But  Mr.  Caleb  Winters  was,  as  he  would  himself 
have  put  it,  too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught  with  chaff. 


268  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

He  looked  composedly  at  the  sparkling,  tearful  little 
face  and  again  shook  his  head.  "Guess  you'll  hev  to 
write  by  the  evenin'  mail  an'  tell  'em  as  how  you've 
changed  your  mind,"  he  remarked  with  aggravating 
cheerfulness.  "  Bless  yer  heart,  they  won't  mind!  " 

"But  they  will!  I  can't  do  that;  I  must  have  those 
letters.  Do  you  hear,  Mr.  Winters;  I've  just  got  to 
have  them! " 

The  postmaster  was  displeased.  He  had  daughters 
of  his  own;  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  shake 
the  eye-teeth  outen  Sally  if  she  talked  to  him  that-a- 
way. 

"Here,  Job,"  he  said  shortly,  "git  erlong  with  this 
'ere  mail,  and  don'  let  the  grass  grow  under  your  feet 
neither."  With  that  he  turned  his  broad  back  upon 
the  suppliant,  who  had  again  grown  pale,  and  began 
fumbling  with  a  pile  of  newspapers  in  the  back  of  the 
office. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  let  her  have  'em,  pa?"  whis 
pered  Job,  a  big-boned,  hulking  fellow  of  twenty. 

"No,  son,  I  ain't,  an'  I  guess  ye  mus'  be  cracked  to 
ask.  What,  tamper  with  the  U.  S.  mails  to  please 
a  chit  of  a  gal.  I'll  bet  I  know  which  side  my  bread's 
buttered  on  fur  a  spell  yit.  More'n  likely  it's  some 
doggoned  trick  of  Dave  Wilde's  to  git  the  office  fur 
himself! " 

Job  turned  away  and  shouldered  the  bag,  but  his 
eyes  rested  pityingly  on  Hilda's  quivering  face  as  he 
passed  out. 

In  an  instant  she  was  by  his  side.  "  Couldn't  you 
do  it?"  she  breathed,  as  they  turned  the  corner. 

"  Couldn't  I  do  what  ?  "  asked  Job. 

"  Open  the  bag  and  let  me  get  my  letters." 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  269 

"I  wisht  I  could,  Hildy;  I — I'd  love  to  do  somethin' 
fur  you."  The  big  fellow  stared  down  at  the  lovely 
upturned  eyes  with  the  most  poignant  regret  depicted 
on  his  coarse-featured  face.  "But  I  guess  pa  'ud  kill 
me  if  I  did.  'Sides  I  ain't  got  the  keys." 

Hilda  was  silent  for  a  moment;  she  was  thinking  fast. 

"  Couldn't  you — couldn't  you  get  the  keys  ?  " 

"I've  had 'em  in  my  han'  more'n  once,"  admitted 
Job;  "but  pa,  he's  got 'em  in  his  pants  pocket  now. 
I  don't  see  how  I  - 

"You  could  hide  the  bag,"  whispered  Hilda,  "and 
get  them  afterward,  couldn't  you?" 

"Golly,  but  you're  a  hummer!"  ejaculated  the 
young  man.  "What's  in  them  letters  that  makes  you 
so  hot  to  git  'em  ?  " 

"They — they're  business  letters,"  said  Hilda,  blush 
ing.  "  It  will  break  my  heart  if  I  can't  get  them.  Oh, 
Job,  you  have  no  idea  how  dreadful  it  will  be!  I'll 
give  you  most  anything — yes,  my  gold  watch  I  got 
last  Christmas,  I  will;  if  you'll  only " 

"  I  don't  want  yer  watch,  ner — ner  nothin'  like  that; 
but  I'll  tell  ye  somethin'  I  would  like." 

"What  is  it?" 

"You're  so  tumble  high  an'  mighty,  Hildy;  I  ain't 
never  got  a  word  with  you  hardly,"  said  the  young 
fellow  in  an  aggrieved  voice.  "  When  we  was  playin' 
snap  an'  ketch  'em  once  a  long  time  ago;  don't  you 
remember?  you  wouldn't  let  me  kiss  you  when  I 
ketched  you.  Now,  ef  you — ef  you " 

"Well,  what?" 

"  Ef  you'll  let  me  kiss  you — none  o'  your  cheek 
kisses — but  right  smack  on  your  mouth,  I'll  git  them 
keys,  and  give  you  them  letters." 


270  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"How  will  you  do  it?" 

"Never  you  mind;  no  letters,  no  pay;  is  it  a  go  ?" 

Hilda  looked  down  upon  the  ground;  a  burning 
wave  of  color  spread  itself  over  all  her  fair  face  and 
white  neck.  "I'll  give  you  ten  dollars  and  my  gold 
bracelet,"  she  murmured,  "if.you " 

"No-sir-ee!  I'll  do  as  I  said  er  I  won't  do  nothin'. 
Do  you  want  them  letters?" 

"Yes — oh,  yes!  " 

"  Will  you  pay  fur  'em  as  I  said  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda,  in  a  low,  shamed  voice,  "I 
will." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
For  Better  or  for  Worse 

THAT  same  evening  as  Miss  Amelia  Hurd  was 
washing  up  the  tea  dishes  in  her  stepmother's 
kitchen,  a  slim  figure  in  a  pink  gown  appeared  in  the 
open  door.  "Law,  Hilda,  is  that  you?"  cried  the 
young  woman,  a  tinge  of  embarrassment  in  her  tones. 
"  Won't  you  sit  down  in  the  parlor;  I'll  be  through  in 
a  minute."  Unconsciously  she  had  begun  to  swing  a 
new  censer  before  her  favorite  shrine. 

Hilda  frowned.  "Why  should  I  go  in  the  parlor," 
she  said  crossly.  "I  want  to  tell  you  something, 
'Melia;  then  I'm  going  straight  home  and  to  bed;  I'm 
tired  to  death." 

A  recent  interview  with  Mr.  Job  Winters,  while  it  had 
relieved  her  most  poignant  anxieties  had  not  improved 
her  temper.  She  felt  sore  and  humiliated  from  head 
to  foot,  though  the  pink  envelope  as  well  as  the  blue 
with  their  fateful  contents  had  been  scattered  to  the 
winds  of  heaven  an  hour  since  in  pieces  no  bigger 
than  a  five-cent  piece.  She  had  paid  Mr.  Winters  the 
stipulated  price;  whereupon  the  youth  had  promptly 
proposed  marriage,  urging  as  a  glittering  inducement 
the  fact  that  he  had  committed  a  penal  offense  in  her 
behalf,  for  which  one  kiss  seemed  a  totally  inadequate 
compensation.  "I  shall  tell  pa,  an'  he'll  han'  me  over 
to  the  constable,"  whined  Mr.  Winters.  "Then  you'll 

271 


272  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

be  subpoenyed  fur  a  witness;  an'  I  guess  the  jedge  c'd 
make  ye  tell  'bout  them  letters  fas'  'nough!  " 

"That  is  all  perfectly  absurd,  Job  Winters,"  Hilda 
had  said  coolly;  "you'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  If 
you  did  I  should  say  you  were  telling  lies;  you 
couldn't  prove  a  single  thing."  With  that  she  had 
terminated  the  interview,  leaving  the  unfortunate 
Job  to  fabricate  as  many  tales  as  he  might  find 
convenient  and  necessary  to  explain  the  unlawful 
detention  of  the  mail. 

Nevertheless  the  day's  doings  had  shaken  her  small 
soul  in  a  most  unpleasant  way,  agitation  of  any  sort 
being  as  repugnant  to  Hilda  as  cold  water  to  a  cat. 
Hence  the  unwonted  dissonance  in  her  soft  voice  as 
she  addressed  Miss  Hurd.  "I  wish  you'd  come  here 
and  listen,"  she  said  imperiously. 

Miss  Hurd  wiped  her  hands  on  her  checkered  apron, 
and  approached  the  door  with  a  fatuous  smile.  "My! 
ain't  it  too  romantic  for  anything!  "  she  gurgled.  "It 
reminds  me  of  that  story  'bout  — 

"Do  be  quiet,  'Melia,  and  listen  to  what  I  say.  I 
don't  want  you  should  mention  this  thing  to  a  single 
soul;  do  you  hear  ?" 

"I  can't  see  why  you're  so  awful  private  'bout 
everything,"  began  Miss  Hurd,  tossing  her  head.  "I 
sh'd  think  you'd  be  so  proud,  you'd  - 

"Do  you  want  me  to  invite  you  to  visit  me  after  I'm 
married,  'Melia  ?" 

"'Course  I  do;  I  sh'd  think  you'd  want  to  anyhow; 
hav'n't  I  always  — 

"You'll  never  step  your  foot  inside  my  house  as 
long  as  you  live,  if  you  don't  do  as  I  say ! " 

"I  haven't  told." 


FOR  BETTER  OR  FOR  WORSE        273 

"Very  well,  don't  tell.  I  won't  have  my  affairs  in 
everybody's  mouth." 

"  What  under  the  sun  was  the  matter  with  you  this 
afternoon,  Hil'  ?"  asked  Miss  Hurd,  with  a  conciliating 
smile.  "You  scared  me  most  to  death,  you  acted  so 
queer.  Aren't  you  glad  I  found  that  paper?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes!"  breathed  Hilda  fervently.  "I — I 
was  so  surprised  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  doing. 
But  it's  all  right  now;  and  I'll — yes;  I'll  do  something 
handsome  for  you  some  day,  'Melia."  Her  usual  man 
ner  had  returned,  and  her  violet  eyes  as  they  rested  on 
her  friend  were  sleepily  soft  and  sweet  as  usual. 

"I  s'pose  you'll  have  di'mon's  an'  pearls  an'  car 
riages,  an'  everything  elegant,"  sighed  the  other 
enviously.  "My,  it  does  beat  all  what  luck  you 
always  have,  Hil'!" 

Hilda  moved  her  plump  shoulders  gently.  It  appeared 
to  her  that  as  Providence  had  begun  by  endowing  her 
with  transcendent  and  all  conquering  beauty,  the  rest 
should  be,  as  it  were,  thrown  in.  She  had  there 
fore  accepted  her  prospective  grandeur  with  the  same 
calmness  with  which  she  had  eaten  her  breakfast.  "  I 
suppose  he  wished  to  keep  it  a  secret  from  me  on  pur 
pose,"  she  said  meditatively.  "After  we're  married 
he'll  probably  take  me  to  an  elegant  house,  and  tell  me 
everything." 

"  It's  just  too  awfully  romantic  for  anything!  "  ex 
claimed  Miss  Hurd;  "and  to  think  I  found  it  out  the 
way  I  did!  " 

"That  is  the  reason  that  I  want  nobody  to  know," 
pursued  Hilda  sweetly.  "I  shouldn't  like  to  spoil  his 
plans." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  tell  him  that  you've  found  out  ?  " 


274  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"No,  indeed  I'm  not;  but  I'm  glad  I  know." 

"You're  the  queerest  girl!"  murmured  Miss 
Hurd. 

This  secret  fund  of  information  was  very  supporting 
to  Hilda  during  the  somewhat  trying  days  that  fol 
lowed.  It  gave  a  sweet  dignity  and  aloofness  to  her 
mien  in  the  final  unpleasant  interview  with  Mr. 
Snider,  in  which  she  informed  that  young  gentleman 
that  she  had  thought  long  and  seriously  over  the  mat 
ter,  with  the  result  that  she  could  never  be  his. 

When  the  unhappy  youth  begged  to  know  whether 
there  was  "another" — this  being  the  usual  procedure, 
though  for  what  reason  it  is  hard  to  guess — she  said 
gently  but  firmly  that  there  was.  She  added,  that  she 
had  learned  to  know  her  own  heart,  and  while  that 
heart  was  overflowing  with  the  warmest  sisterly  affec 
tion  for  Mr.  Snider,  she  could  never  (as  stated  before) 
be  his  in  any  nearer  relation. 

A  high  shirt-collar  sometimes  serves  a  useful  pur 
pose  in  life's  crises.  One  who  affects  it  can,  for  ex 
ample,  safely  go  to  sleep  in  church  without  fear  of 
betraying  somnolence  by  a  humiliating  nod.  On  this 
occasion  Mr.  Snider's  head  would  doubtless  have 
fallen  despondently  upon  his  breast  could  it  have  done 
so;  but  owing  to  the  spiritual  as  well  as  material  sup 
port  afforded  by  the  unyielding  walls  of  his  collar  he 
went  away  with  an  erect  front,  and  proposed  to  Miss 
Amelia  Hurd  that  same  evening. 

It  must  be  stated  in  justice  to  Hilda  that  she  was 
perfectly  sincere  in  every  word  she  had  uttered  in  the 
above  interview.  Who  can  deny  that  the  emotion  of 
love,  as  we  are  acquainted  with  it  on  the  terrestrial 
plane,  is  unavoidably  alloyed  with  baser  stuff,  and 


FOR  BETTER  OR  FOR  WORSE        275 

this  for  the  very  useful  and  legitimate  purpose  of  in 
creasing  its  durability.  One  cannot  permanently  reside 
in  an  environment  composed  exclusively  of  sentiment 
— at  least  in  this  world.  Such  housekeeping  may  be 
practicable  in  some  rarified  future  condition;  but  here 
and  now  houses  and  money  and  clothes  seem  to  enter 
as  a  definite  factor  into  our  most  sentimental  calcula 
tions — if  not  before  marriage  then  the  more  insistently 
and  disagreeably  after. 

Hilda  was  now  agreeably  sure  in  her  own  mind  that 
she  loved  Immanuel  with  ardor  and  devotion;  and 
those  of  us  who  live  in  glass  houses  should  not  throw 
stones.  Her  maiden  heart  beat  with  just  as  sweet  an 
agitation  as  yours,  Madam  and  the  Misses  Grundy, 
ever  did  on  a  like  occasion  as  she  perused  the  daily 
letters  she  had  once  found  "tiresome."  She  now  read 
in  these  glowing  words  of  affection,  if  not  all  that  the 
writer  intended,  much  that  he  did  not  intend  which 
was  vastly  more  entertaining. 

Her  own  epistles,  sent  as  regularly,  breathed  with  a 
faint  odor  of  violets,  depths  of  maidenly  sweetness, 
which  Immanuel  Rossi  had  only  guessed  at  heretofore. 
These  letters  of  Hilda's  did  not  err  in  being  vulgarly 
affectionate,  it  must  be  understood.  Nothing  is  more 
ill-advised  than  for  a  woman  to  spread  her  heart  upon 
paper  for  the  eyes  of  any  man.  The  lords  of  creation 
quite  naturally  prefer  to  keep  the  ardent  love-making 
to  themselves;  they  should  invariably  be  allowed  to 
do  so.  That  curious  little  volume,  "The  Love  Letters 
of  an  English  Woman  "  might  be  profitably  introduced 
as  a  text-book  into  our  young  ladies'  seminaries.  By 
means  of  it  students  could  be  easily  instructed  as  to 
what  not  to  put  into  a  love-letter.  The  awful  warn- 


276  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

ing  of  its  closing  chapters  would  not,  I  am  confident, 
be  lost  upon  any  intelligent  young  woman. 

No,  Hilda's  letters  were  a  model  of  prudent  reserve; 
they  hinted  at  much;  they  said  nothing  in  particular; 
which  was  quite  as  it  should  have  been.  These 
dainty  pink,  pale  blue  and  cream  white  bits  of  paper 
served  as  the  most  effectual  fans  in  the  world  to  keep 
Immanuel  Rossi's  infatuation  at  the  white  heat  of 
enthusiasm,  and  they  brought  him  at  length  to  the 
little  village  whose  postmark  they  bore— if  not  on  the 
wings  of  love,  on  the  fastest  train  available. 

When  Hilda  set  her  eyes  on  the  man  whom  she  had 
come  very  easily  to  regard  as  a  "magnificent  specimen 
of  American  manhood,"  tears  of  real  joy  filled  her  blue 
eyes;  she  nestled  naturally  and  sweetly  against  his 
broad  shoulder,  and  felt  as  happy  as  a  girl  can  be  ex 
pected  to  feel  under  such  blissful  circumstances. 
This  particular  "  caprice  of  a  multi-millionaire  "  was, 
she  felt,  altogether  as  it  should  be.  And  when,  later 
in  the  day,  her  lover  somewhat  shamefacedly  pro 
duced  a  tiny  case  from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  fitted 
a  sparkling  diamond  on  her  white  finger,  why  her  cup 
of  joy  fairly  brimmed  over.  She  said  nothing,  how 
ever,  which  was  again  quite  as  it  should  have  been, 
for  it  gave  Immanuel  Rossi  the  opportunity  to  say  a 
great  deal. 

"I  fear  you  will  think  me  very  extravagant,  dear," 
he  whispered. — And  indeed  the  jewel  was  not  strictly 
in  keeping  with  the  role  upon  which  he  had  fixed. 
"I  saw  it  one  day  in  a  shop  window,  and  it  reminded 
me  of  you,  sweet;  it  was  so  pure  and  spark 
ling." 

Hilda  smiled  shyly.     "I  hope  you  will  always  love 


FOR  BETTER  OR  FOR  WORSE        277 

me  as  much  as  you  do  now,"  she  said  with  a  pretty 
wistfulness. 

"  How  can  I  help  but  love  you  more  and  more, 
dearest,"  he  answered  fervently.  Then  he  began  to 
tell  her  at  length  of  the  changes  and  improvements  he 
had  been  making  in  the  little  house  on  the  back  hill- 
road.  He  wound  up  by  asking  if  they  could  not  be 
married  immediately.  "I  have  so  much  to  show  my 
wife,  and  so  much  to  tell  her  that  the  time  seems  long." 

Hilda's  eyes  under  her  long  curled  lashes  seemed  on 
the  instant  to  reflect  the  fire  that  shot  from  her  dia 
mond.  Yet  she  answered  with  the  sweetest  propriety 
that  it  must  be  just  as  papa  said. 

Papa  had  been  disagreeably  short  and  crusty  in  the 
beginning;  indeed  he  had  pooh-poohed  the  idea  of 
Hilda's  marriage  quite  sharply,  when  the  young  lady 
had  herself  broached  the  matter  before  her  lover's 
arrival. 

"  I've  heard  all  I  want  to  about  this  young  man  from 
your  grandfather,"  he  said  with  unpleasant  emphasis. 
"  He  tells  me  his  farm  is  run  down  to  nothing,  and 
that  the  fellow  knows  next  to  nothing  about  managing 
it.  It  won't  do." 

"  But  it  will  do,  papa,"  said  Hilda,  with  quiet  posi- 
tiveness;  "Mr.  Rossi  is  quite  able  to  take  care  of  me, 
I  am  sure." 

Mr.  Rossi  himself  in  a  private  interview  with  Mr. 
Wilde  evidently  convinced  that  gentleman  of  his 
ability  to  make  good  Hilda's  confidence  in  him.  The 
girl  observed  a  puzzled  look  in  the  paternal  eyes  as 
they  rested  upon  her  some  hours  later.  "  You  are  a 
lucky  girl,  Hil',"  he  had  briefly  said;  "you've  played 
your  cards  darned  well." 


278  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

At  which  Hilda  smiled  in  her  own  charmingly  non 
committal  way.  "I  can't  think  what  you  mean,  dear 
papa,"  she  said  sweetly.  "But  I'm  glad  you're  not 
going  to  break  my  heart." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  on  a  cool  bright  day  in 
early  autumn  Immanuel  Rossi  was  journeying  with  the 
most  charming  bride  that  could  have  been  found  any 
where  in  the  world.  The  young  man  felt  blissfully 
sure  of  this,  as  his  eyes  rested  proudly  on  the  sweet 
flower-like  face  beneath  the  modest  hat  which  exactly 
matched  the  severely  simple  traveling  gown.  Hilda 
had  not  made  an  exhaustive  study  of  her  favorite 
magazine  for  nothing.  Indeed  she  had  corresponded 
with  the  editor  of  the  fashion  column  some  weeks 
before  her  marriage,  and  knew  with  comfortable 
certainty  that  she  was  now  attired  in  a  manner  "suit 
able  for  a  girl  in  moderate  circumstances,  who  was 
about  to  marry  a  very  rich  man." 

Not  being  of  a  gushingly  confidential  nature,  Hilda 
had  not  so  much  as  mentioned  these  minor  matters  to 
her  fortunate  bridegroom;  hence  he  beheld  only  the 
perfect  result  of  a  somewhat  tortuous  process.  That 
truly  invaluable  innate  sense  of  the  eternal  fitness  of 
things  yclept  tact,  which  is  as  much  a  birthright  as  the 
color  of  one's  eyes,  had  served  the  young  woman  ad 
mirably  on  previous  occasions;  it  came  to  her  rescue 
once  more,  when  Immanuel  murmured  in  her  ear  that 
they  were  going  at  once  to  their  own  little  home  on 
the  back  hill-road.  She  had  hoped — indeed,  she  had 
confidently  expected,  that  this  wedding  journey  of 
theirs  would  end  in  New  York,  or  at  the  least  in  New 
port  or  Europe.  Hilda's  fashionable  geography  was 
of  the  vaguest;  but  dreams  of  magnificence  had 


FOR  BETTER  OR  FOR  WORSE        279 

haunted  her  waking  as  well  as  sleeping  hours  ever 
since  that  fateful  scrap  of  paper  had  fallen  in  her  way. 

Now  a  little  chill  of  fear  paled  her  cheeks  as  she 
listened  to  the  short,  disjointed  sentences  which  fell 
from  the  lips  of  the  man  at  her  side.  Suppose  it  was 
all  a  mistake;  newspapers,  she  had  heard,  did  not  in 
variably  tell  the  truth.  She  felt  a  sudden  suspicion  of 
Amelia  Hurd.  What  if  it  was  a  deep-laid  plan  to  get 
Jack  away  from  her!  These  unpleasant  reflections 
brought  so  charming  an  expression  of  regret  into  the 
depths  of  her  violet  eyes,  that  Immanuel  checked  him 
self  in  the  midst  of  an  enthusiastic  forecast  of  their 
future  to  say  tenderly,  "  But  I  shall  not  be  selfish, 
dear;  you  shall  go  home  whenever  you  wish.  You 
are  such  a  little  home-lover,  I  know,  but  I  hope  it  will 
not  be  hard  to  be  happy  in  a  certain  farmhouse." 

"Shall  we — shall  we  always  live  in  that  house?" 
asked  Hilda  tremulously. 

"'Always'  is  a  long  word,  dear,"  said  Immanuel, 
with  a  searching  look  into  the  exquisite  drooping  face. 
"  1  cannot  tell." 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time  after  this,  and  Hilda  in 
a  noiseless  tumult  of  hope  and  fear  looked  quietly  out 
of  the  window. 

Each  wondered  secretly  what  the  other  was  think 
ing  about.  This  marriage  is  a  curious  spectacle — to 
put  it  mildly.  A  man  and  a  woman  mutually  vow  to 
love  and  cherish  an  unseen,  unknowable  being;  repre 
sented  often  unfairly  enough  by  the  symbol  we  call 
body.  Little  by  little,  bit  by  bit,  the  invisible  man 
comes  to  see  dimly  the  actual  woman  at  his  side  who 
has  rashly  sworn  to  be  his  until  death  do  them  part. 
And  so  altruism  finds  itself  linked  to  egotism;  love  to 


280  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

selfishness;  wisdom  to  ignorance.  So  does  God  who 
is  the  Beginning  and  the  End — the  All  and  in  All — con 
tinually  mingle  in  this  earth-crucible  the  gold,  silver 
and  precious  stones  with  the  wood,  hay  and  stubble. 

They  were  set  down  that  evening  at  sunset — these 
two  who  were  strangers  but  who  believed  themselves 
to  be  united  in  life's  tenderest  tie — before  the  old  house 
on  the  back  hill-road.  It  was  no  longer  a  shabby,  pa 
thetic  old  house;  even  Hilda  was  roused  from  the 
apathy  of  her  fear  and  disappointment  to  a  momentary 
pleasure  as  she  beheld  the  astonishing  changes  that  had 
taken  place  both  inside  and  out.  The  environing  may 
weed  had  given  place  to  stretches  of  velvet  turf;  the 
straggling  lilacs  were  pruned;  the  modest  walls  shone 
with  a  new  coat  of  paint;  bay  windows  jutted  out 
here  and  there.  Within,  fresh  paint,  paper  and  some 
tasteful  pieces  of  furniture  had  wrought  wonders  in  the 
old-fashioned  rooms.  It  was  sweet  and  comfortable 
and  homelike  enough  to  have  pleased  a  more  fastidious 
woman  than  Hilda.  "After  all,"  she  thought,  "it 
must  be  true;  it  cost  a  great  deal  of  money  to  do  even 
this;  and  it  is  certainly  a  romantic  idea  to  spend  our 
honeymoon  here."  Her  pretty  head  straightened  itself 
like  a  drooping  flower  refreshed  by  the  rain;  her  blue 
eyes  shone  with  joy. 

"  Do  you  like  it,  dear?"  asked  Immanuel  anxiously. 

"I  think  it  is  lovely,"  answered  Hilda  honestly. 


PART  III 

The  Conqueror 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
His  Other  Self 

IMMANUEL  ROSSI  made  no  haste  to  acquaint  his 
wife  with  what  he  was  pleased  to  term  the  sordid 
circumstance  of  his  wealth.  What  had  money  to  do 
with  these  delicious  hours,  which  could  surely  never 
be  repeated  whatever  else  of  bliss  the  future  undoubt 
edly  held  ?  And  Hilda  conducted  herself  with  the 
most  admirable  self-restraint;  her  anxieties  and  doubts 
were  as  sweetly  hid  as  ever  her  ignorance  of  classic 
lore  had  been  in  the  earlier  days  of  their  acquaintance. 
Besides,  what  woman  of  twenty  can  be  wholly  insen 
sible  to  the  rapturous  adoration  of  a  handsome  man  in 
the  first  glow  of  his  married  happiness  ?  It  was  very  in 
teresting  to  be  adored,  more  interesting  even  than  she 
had  imagined.  But 

This  "but  "  spoiled  even  her  pleasure  in  the  ruffled 
muslin  curtains — which  this  singular  young  husband  of 
hers  had  not  forgotten,  and  cast  its  shadow  over  every 
appointment  of  a  really  dainty  nest  of  a  home.  To  be 
sure  she  laughed  indulgently  at  certain  masculine  blun 
ders,  and  wondered  in  private  at  certain  masculine  ex 
travagances. 

A  ponderous  chest  of  silver  bearing  the  cards  of 
Messrs.  Trent  and  Smalley,  with  their  respective  wives, 
arrived  at  the  beginning  of  the  second  week  of  their 
housekeeping.  Hilda  examined  the  shining  rows 

283 


284  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

upon  rows  of  spoons  and  forks  with  a  heightened 
color.  "When  shall  we  ever  use  all  these  beautiful 
things,  Immanuel?"  she  asked,  looking  up  to  meet 
her  husband's  watchful  eyes. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  little  wife,"  he  answered 
with  a  smile;  "we  might  invite  the  haymakers  in  to 
dinner  some  day,  and  dazzle  them  with  our  magnifi 
cence." 

"You  don't  mean  that,"  said  Hilda,  with  a  toss  of 
her  pretty  head.  "  But  tell  me  who  are  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Trent  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smalley  ?" 

"  Trent  and  Smalley  are  my  lawyers,  dear." 

"Lawyers  ?"  repeated  Hilda,  with  a  rising  inflection 
of  astonishment. 

"I  have  never  told  you,  sweetheart,  because  it  has 
really  nothing  to  do  with  our  happiness;  but  I  had  a 
tiresome  lot  of  money  left  me  long  ago.  Mr.  Smalley 
and  Mr.  Trent  look  after  it  for  me."  He  said  this  in 
the  quietest,  most  matter-of-fact  way  in  the  world. 
Indeed  he  could  not  easily  have  comprehended  Hilda's 
mind  had  he  been  on  a  sudden  gifted  with  the  doubt 
ful  privilege  of  looking  into  its  hidden  depths. 

There  was  nothing  there  after  all  but  what  the  world 
at  large  would  have  called  a  very  natural  and  laudable 
ambition;  even  that  was  not  visible  in  the  lovely  eyes 
uplifted  to  his  face,  nor  yet  in  the  unwonted  flutter  of 
that  perfectly  modeled  bosom.  Her  voice  was  calm 
and  unshaken  as  she  said  slowly,  "  I  do  not  under 
stand — please  tell  me  about  it." 

"Thank  God  you  loved  me  for  myself,  dear,"  he 
murmured,  kissing  the  white  forehead.  "You  thought 
me  a  poor  farmer.  And  that  is  truly  what  I  am  at 
present;  but  I  shall  be  more — I  can  be  more." 


HIS  OTHER  SELF  285 

"But  the  money!"  said  Hilda,  in  a  tone  of  sharp 
anxiety;  "  have  you  lost  it?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  such  surprise  almost  merging 
into  pained  doubt,  that  she  called  up  a  ghost  of  a 
smile.  "You — you  are  so  queer,"  she  said  in  a  low 
strained  voice.  "  I— I  wish  - 

"  What  is  it  that  you  wish,  dear  ?  " 

"I  know  so  little  about  you,"  she  complained, 
thrusting  out  her  ripe  lips  like  a  child  on  the  verge 
of  sobs;  "you  have  never  told  me  the  first  thing 
about  yourself.  I  do  not  even  know  you!  " 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  burst  into  relieved 
laughter.  "  I  am  not  much  given  to  talking,"  he  con 
fessed;  "Uncle  Moses  was  silent  as  a  hermit  for  the 
most  part,  and  I  early  learned  to  hold  my  tongue:  'tis 
a  habit  hard  to  break.  But  you  are  right,  dear,  I  have 
told  you  too  little  about  myself." 

"You  were  born  near  here — at  the  Four  Corners, 
Aunt  Emeline  says,"  observed  Hilda,  impatient  at  the 
revery  into  which  he  seemed  about  to  fall  with  his  last 
words.  "And  you  lived  with  the  Winches — quite 
poor  people;  I  have  seen  their  house." 

Immanuel's  face  saddened.  "  I  do  not  think  enough 
of  those  days,"  he  said  slowly.  "Elizabeth  Winch 
was  a  good  woman — my  mother,  the  only  mother  I 
ever  knew.  She  died  for  me  as  truly  as  any 
martyr." 

"  How  did  they  find  out  about  you  ?"  asked  Hilda 
hurriedly.  "  How  did  they  find  out  that  your  mother 
was  really " 

"Have  you  heard  the  story?"  he  asked. 

"Very  little  of  it,"  stammered  Hilda,  overcome 
with  a  curious  embarrassment.  "She — she  died." 


286  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"She  was  killed — murdered,"  he  said  with  deliber 
ate  emphasis. 

"Oh,  I  never  heard  that! "  cried  Hilda,  her  eyes  wide 
with  horror.  "Who  did  it  ?" 

"  My  grandfather." 

"  Your  grandfather?  But  she  died  in  the  Winches' 
barn;  there  was  an  inquest.  No  one  ever  knew." 

"It  was  all  found  out  afterward,"  said  Immanuel 
bitterly.  "My  mother  was  a  petted,  indulged  child; 
she  loved  and  married  my  father  who  was  a  poor  man. 
My  grandfather  thrust  her  out  into  the  world,  and  she 
died,  murdered  by  his  pride,  by  his  love  of  money. 
That  accursed  money  came  to  me;  the  world  calls  me 
a  rich  man.  But  I  am  a  child  of  poverty — a  child  of 
the  tenements.  I  must  atone!  " 

"I  am  so  glad  she  was  not  really  murdered,"  said 
Hilda,  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief.  "That  would  have 
been  too  dreadful!"  Her  eyes  were  sparkling  with 
suppressed  delight;  but  her  face  was  quite  properly 
sober,  drawn  into  mock  doleful  curves  to  match  the 
sadness  of  that  other  face  so  near  her  own. 

"  You  must  understand  me,  dear,"  he  said,  a  thrill  of 
anxiety  in  his  voice,  "  this  money  that  has  come  to  me 
is  not  my  own." 

"Not  your  own!"  cried  Hilda,  aghast.  "  Whose  is 
it  then  ?" 

"  1  hold  it  in  trust  for  those  to  whom  it  belongs," 
said  her  husband.  He  leaned  forward  and  took  one 
of  the  little  white  hands  in  both  his  own.  "I  am  so 
glad  you  loved  me — here  in  this  beautiful  country,"  he 
went  on  softly.  "It  is  only  love  that  has  made  us 
husband  and  wife;  it  is  only  love  that  can  keep  us 
happy.  That  is  why  1  never  told  you  about  the 


HIS  OTHER  SELF  287 

money.  Do  you  not  understand  ?"  The  anxiety  had 
deepened  almost  to  entreaty.  He  waited  a  moment, 
but  Hilda  sat  silent  with  dropped  eyes.  "I  cannot 
tell  you  all;  you  must  see  for  yourself.  You  will  un 
derstand—you  will  help  me." 

Hilda  looked  up.  There  was  a  steely  glitter  in  the 
depths  of  her  violet  eyes.  "  I  wish  you  would  speak 
so  that  I  can  understand  you,"  she  said  coldly.  "  I 
dare  say  I  am  very  stupid,  but  I  confess  that  it  puzzles 
me  when  you  tell  me  in  one  breath  that  you  have  had 
a  great  deal  of  money  left  you  by  your  grandfather, 
and  in  the  next  that  it  is  not  your  own." 

"  Hilda,  can  you  go  to  New  York  with  me  this  after 
noon  ?" 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  little  cry  of  joyful  sur 
prise.  "Will  you  take  me  to  New  York?  Oh, 
Immanuel,  how  good  you  are!  " 

He  looked  down  at  the  dimpling  face  with  a  sigh; 
then  he  stooped  and  kissed  the  low,  white  forehead 
under  its  cloud  of  yellow  hair.  A  miserable  little  teas 
ing  doubt  was  beginning  to  whisper  in  his  ear.  He 
rebuked  it  sharply.  "You  are  nothing  but  a  child, 
Hilda,"  he  said  wistfully,  and  kissed  her  again,  this 
time  on  her  lips.  "  Do  you  love  me,  dear  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  love  you,  foolish  boy!"  said  Mrs. 
Hilda,  with  pretty  dignity.  She  drew  herself  out  of 
his  arms,  and  patted  her  tumbled  hair  with  two  white 
hands.  "Shall  I  pack  all  my  dresses  ?"  she  asked. 

They  had  had  a  long  delightful  day  of  sightseeing 
together  and  Hilda  was  blissfully  sleepy  and  content, 
ready  to  be  caressed  and  to  purr  like  a  kitten.  She 
glanced  about  the  somewhat  gaudily  furnished  room  in 


288  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

the  unfashionable  hotel  where  they  were  stopping  and 
sighed  happily.  "  I  have  had  such  a  good  time  to-day," 
she  said.  "I  just  love  New  York!  I  wish  we  might 
live  here  all  the  time  instead  of  in  that  stupid  country. 
Only  think  what  it  will  be  next  winter,  with  the  drifts 
piled  high  and  the  most  dismal  winds  howling  down 
the  chimney — ugh !  "  She  shivered  daintily  and  nestled 
against  her  husband's  broad  shoulder.  "You  could 
live  here — or  wherever  you  liked,  couldn't  you  ?  "  She 
looked  up  into  his  face  with  the  sweetest  coaxing 
smile.  "I  am  sure  we  should  like  it  ever  so  much 
better.  I  like  to  see  everything — there  is  so  much. 
And  I  am  sure  I  am  just  as — yes,  why  shouldn't  I  say  it  ? 
I  am  every  bit  as  pretty  as  some  of  those  elegant  ladies 
we  saw  driving  in  the  park  this  afternoon." 

"You  are  far  prettier  than  any  of  them,"  he  said 

with  strong  conviction.     "You  are "     But  why 

record  all  that  he  said.  Few  honeymoon  speeches 
will  bear  reporting  verbatim. 

Hilda  blushed  and  sighed  and  dimpled  with  all  her 
most  bewitching  variations  as  he  wound  up  a  fervent 
dissertation  upon  her  charms,  with  every  word  of  which 
she  perfectly  agreed.  "  Don't  you  think  we  would  be 
much  happier  here  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"No,   dear,  I  am  sure  we  should  not  be  happier.     I 
have  lived  in  New  York,  and  I  know." 
"  But  you  haven't  lived  here  with  me." 
"No,  sweetheart,  and  I  don't  intend  to." 
Hilda  raised  her  brows  ever  so  little;  she  said  noth 
ing.     Her  friend,   Miss  Hurd,   had  she  been  present, 
could  have  told  Immanuel  what  that  pretty  little  reflect 
ive  air  signified.    "When  Hil'  looks  like  that,"  she  was 
wont  to  remark  sagely,  "  you  might  as  well  give  up. 


HIS  OTHER  SELF  289 

She  doesn't  say  much;  but  she'll  have  her  own  way  in 
the  end,  by  hook  or  by  crook." 

On  this  occasion  she  tried  "hook,"  baited  seduc 
tively  with  a  gentle  little  kiss,  dropped  soft  as  the  petal 
of  a  rose-leaf  on  Immanuel's  brown  hand.  "  You  said 
I  could  help  you  with  your  work;  did  you  mean  farm 
work,  dear  ?  I  can't  make  butter,  you  know,  and  I 
hate  to  wash  pans."  This  was  little  better  than  hypoc 
risy;  for  a  stout  kitchen-maid  had  been  a  part  of  the 
furnishing  of  the  farmhouse.  It  answered  the  purpose 
admirably. 

"  That  is  precisely  what  1  brought  you  to  New  York 
for,  Hilda,"  he  said  seriously.  "  I  wish  to  show  you 
what  I  am  doing  with  my  money,  and  what  I  intend 
to  do." 

Hilda's  face  brightened.  "I  shall  love  to  do  that," 
she  said. 

"To-morrow  morning,"  he  went  on,  "we  shall 
begin.  You  will  see  some  painful  sights,  dear,  and 
some  ugly  ones;  but  you  must  not  mind  that.  If  only 
we  can  redeem  the  ugliness  and  soothe  the  pain." 

Hilda  was  full  of  curiosity.  "  I  can't  think  what 
you  mean,  Immanuel,"  she  said  eagerly.  "Do  tell 
me,  please!  " 

"  Thank  God  you  do  not,"  he  returned,  and  led  her 
to  the  window.  "Do  you  see  those  tall  buildings 
yonder?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  wonderingly. 

"  What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  that  in  every 
one  of  them  were  crowded  as  many  people  as  live  in 
your  home  village  ?  What  would  you  say  if  I  told 
you  that  these  people  were  packed  into  small,  dark, 
unventilated  rooms — sometimes  a  whole  familv  in  a 


290  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

room  not  as  large  as  this,  where  they  must  eat,  sleep, 
and  work  ?" 

"  But  why  do  they  do  it  ?  "  asked  Hilda,  elevating 
her  eyebrows.  "I  don't  think  it  is  at  all  nice;  I 
wouldn't  live  that  way." 

"They  must.  There  is  no  other  way — no  other 
place.  See  here,  Hilda,  I  found  that  my  grandfather 
owned  dozens  of  these  buildings — some  of  the  very 
worst  ones.  I  would  not  tell  you  even  if  I  could  how 
horrible  the  conditions  were.  I  must  rebuild  every  one 
of  them.  I  have  rebuilt  some  of  them.  All  the  money 
and  all  that  I  can  do  personally  is  too  little  to  make 
good  the  frightful  injustice  of  the  past." 

"But  it  wasn't  your  fault,"  she  cried,  tossing  her 
head. 

"No,  but  it  will  be  my  fault  if  I  let  it  go  on — if  I 
do  nothing  to  make  it  right.  1  must  make  it  right!  " 

Hilda  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "I  think  it  is  very 
nice  of  you,"  she  said  prettily. 

"Do  you,  darling?  I  am  so  glad!"  The  joyful 
relief  in  his  tone  was  so  marked  that  Hilda  looked  up. 

"You  were  afraid  I  would  not  think  so,"  she  mur 
mured. 

"No — no,  dear,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "I  was  sure 
you  would  help  me.  Ah,  little  wife,  we  shall  be  able 
to  bring  happiness  into  so  many  lives! " 

Hilda  turned  her  head  with  a  seductive  little  pucker 
in  her  white  forehead.  "  Do  you  mind  telling  me  how 
much  money  you  have  ?"  she  said  coolly. 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  named  a  sum  that 
caused  her  to  draw  a  quick  breath  of  awe  and  amaze 
ment.  "Why,  Immanuel!"  she  cried,  and  stared  at 
him  with  wide,  uncomprehending  eyes. 


HIS  OTHER  SELF  291 

"  It  is  a  great  power— a  great  responsibility,"  he  said 
gravely. 

There  was  another  question  trembling  on  the  red 
lips.  "Must  you — shall  you,  use  all  of  this  money  for 
these — beggars  ?" 

The  last  word  stung  him  like  the  blow  of  a  whip. 
"They  are  not  beggars,"  he  cried,  a  note  of  anger  in 
his  deep  voice.  "  My  father  died  in  a  tenement  house; 
my  mother  lived  there.  They  were  not  beggars;  my 
father  was  looking  for  work  the  day  before  he  died. 
You  do  not  understand,  Hilda,  and  after  all,  why 
should  you  understand.  You  shall  see  for  your 
self  !  " 

He  did  not  intend  to  uncover  the  foulest  spots  of  the 
city's  shame  and  misery  before  the  innocent  eyes  of 
his  young  wife.  "  If  she  but  sees  the  women  and  chil 
dren,"  he  said  to  himself;  "it  will  be  enough."  They 
were  breakfasting  the  next  morning  when  the  subject 
was  again  broached  between  them. 

"  Do  you  want  to  make  me  perfectly  happy  to-day, 
dear?"  cooed  Hilda.  She  looked  bewitching  in  all 
the  fresh  loveliness  of  the  new  day. 

Immanuel's  brown  eyes  lingered  like  a  caress  on  the 
flower-like  face.  "Of  course  I  do,"  he  said  smiling. 
"What  shall  it  be  ?  " 

"  I  am  almost  afraid  to  ask,"  she  confessed,  lowering 
her  long  lashes.  "You  quite  frighten  me  sometimes; 
you  are  so " 

"  Am  I  such  a  brute  as  that  ?  When  did  I  frighten 
you,  dear  ?  " 

"I  have  always  been  a  little  bit  afraid  of  you,"  she 
murmured.  "  I  am  more  afraid  than  ever  now." 

"Why?"     His    voice   was    urgent,    almost    com- 


292  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

manding.  "  You  must  tell  me  why  you  are  afraid  of 
me,  Hilda." 

"That  is  too  long  a  story,"  she  said,  dimpling  and 
flushing  under  his  gaze.  "Perhaps  I  shall  get  over  it 
some  day."  She  sipped  her  coffee  daintily,  while  he 
looked  at  her  in  dismayed  silence. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  a  clumsy  fellow,"  he  said,  drawing 
his  black  brows  together  in  an  effort  to  recall  the  past. 
"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Hilda,  I  wasn't  properly  brought 
up  in  one  direction.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
women — 1  never  knew  any."  His  eyes  as  they  rested 
upon  her  face  were  so  honestly  appealing  that  she  broke 
into  a  light  laugh  of  amusement  and  triumph. 

"I'm  not  so  terrified  as  usual  just  at  this  minute," 
she  said  gaily;  "and  I  will  take  advantage  of  the 
fact  to  tell  you  that  I  am  simply  dying  to  go  to  the 
opera." 

"Is  that  all  ?"  he  said.  "Why  didn't  you  say  so  at 
once  ?  Am  I  such  an  ogre  that  my  wife  is  afraid  to 
ask  for  an  opera  ticket?  Of  course  you  shall  go!" 
He  ran  his  eye  rapidly  over  the  columns  of  the  news 
paper  that  lay  beside  his  plate.  "There  isn't  much 
that  is  worth  hearing  now,"  he  said.  "Trovatore — 
Aida;  I  haven't  heard  everything  myself.  Uncle  did 
not  care  much  for  playhouses  for  me,  though  he  was 
passionately  fond  of  music." 

"  But  I  have  never  seen  any  opera,"  said  Hilda 
plaintively.  "I  often  feel  so  ignorant — and  indeed  I 
am  ignorant  and  uncultured.  I  wonder  that  you  could 
ever  have  cared  for  a  raw  country  girl  like  me,  Im- 
manuel,"  she  looked  so  sweetly  humble  as  she  said  this 
that  he  was  tempted  to  heaven  knows  what  in  the  way 
of  rash  vows. 


HIS  OTHER  SELF  293 

What  he  did  say  with  all  his  honest  soul  in  his 
brown  eyes  satisfied  her  for  the  moment.  "  You  are 
all  that  I  wish  you  to  be,  Hilda."  After  a  pause  he 
added  with  a  smile,  "Shall  it  be  Trovatore,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  please,  and  thank  you  very  much,"  said  Hilda 
gently. 

"And  you  will  go  with  me  to  see  some  of  my 
tenements  this  morning  ?  "  he  asked,  laying  down  the 
paper. 

"Of  course,"  she  assented,  raising  her  eyebrows 
ever  so  little;  "I  haven't  forgotten  why  you  brought 
me  to  New  York.  It  wasn't  to  amuse  me  ;  it  was  just 
to  see  those  tenements." 

He  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "I  had  hoped — I 
supposed  that  you  would  care,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
Tenements  and  Tears 

THEY  were  climbing  a  dark  staircase  in  a  New- 
berry  Street  tenement  block.  "Where  are  we 
going?"  whispered  Hilda,  nervously.  "How  close  it 
is  here;  I'm  afraid  it  will  make  me  faint! " 

"We  shall  be  up  in  a  minute,  dear,"  he  answered 
reassuringly.  "  I  want  you  to  see  Mrs.  Mulholland  and 
her  children." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Mulholland  ?  " 

"  One  of  my  tenants.  I  am  going  to  ask  her  to 
move;  in  fact  they  must  all  move;  this  old  barrack  is 
coming  down  next  week." 

"It's  a  dreadful  place,"  she  panted,  "perfectly 
dreadful! " 

"  Isn't  it  ?  "  he  assented.  "  I  am  ashamed  to  call  it 
mine.  After  we  have  seen  this  I  will  show  you  a 
house  I  am  not  ashamed  of." 

He  was  knocking  at  a  low-browed  door  on  a  narrow, 
ill-lighted  corridor  as  he  said  this.  The  whirring  beat 
of  a  sewing-machine  driven  at  a  furious  rate  of  speed 
stopped  for  an  instant,  and  a  shrill  voice  bade  them 
enter. 

Hilda  gathered  up  her  fresh  skirts  daintily  and  grew 
a  little  pale  as  her  husband  opened  the  door  and 
motioned  her  forward.  It  was  a  tiny  room  with  one 
window,  before  which,  bent  almost  double  under  the 

294 


TENEMENTS  AND  TEARS  295 

low  sloping  ceiling,  sat  a  white-faced  girl  sewing  on  a 
lapful  of  some  bluish  material.  The  sewing-machine 
aforementioned  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  with 
its  operator  in  a  broken-backed  chair.  She  was  a  tall, 
angular  woman,  dressed  in  a  ragged  calico  wrapper, 
bound  about  the  waist  with  a  bit  of  twine.  Three  or 
four  small  children  in  various  states  of  dirt  and  squalor 
squatted  on  the  naked  floor.  All  were  working 
busily;  one  sewing  on  buttons,  another  overcasting 
seams  of  the  same  stuff  which  was  piled  about  the 
girl  by  the  window.  There  was  a  tiny  cook-stove  in 
one  corner,  Hilda  noticed,  and  a  bed,  dingy  and 
tumbled.  A  bit  of  cheese  and  a  broken  loaf  lay  on 
the  table. 

"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Mulholland,"  said  Immanuel, 
shaking  hands  with  the  woman.  ' '  1  want  to  introduce 
you  to  my  wife." 

The  woman  stared  with  lack-lustre  eyes  at  the  slim 
figure  in  the  doorway.  "Won't  you  come  in?" 
she  said  civilly.  She  rose  as  she  spoke  and  set  out  the 
one  chair. 

Hilda  shook  her  head  and  glanced  appealingly  at  her 
husband. 

"My  wife  has  never  been  in  the  city  before,"  he 
said  easily;  "she  finds  your  stairs  hard  to  climb." 

"They  are  hard,  God  knows,"  said  the  woman; 
"  but  I  guess  there's  stairs  'most  everywhere.  I  don't 
care  nothin'  'bout  'em  as  long's  I  kin  git  plenty  of 
work." 

"What  are  you  doing  now?"  asked  Immanuel, 
eying  the  blue  stuff  with  a  frown. 

"Postal-uniform  pants,"  said  the  woman  wearily. 
"We  get  nine  and  a  half  cents  a  pair  for  'em.  I  ain't 


296  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

anything  to  complain  of,  sir.  We've  been  doin' 
splendid  since  you  was  so  good  to  us.  Lizzy  there's 
workin'  to  home  now;  an*  we've  always  plenty  to  eat, 
ain't  we,  children  ?  " 

The  children  nodded;  their  gray,  pinched  faces 
taking  on  the  semblance  of  a  smile.  One  of  them 
pointed  to  the  table  with  pride;  they  had  had  enough 
and  to  spare. 

The  woman  wiped  her  eyes.  "I  don't  know  where 
we'd  be  now  if  it  wasn't  for  you,  sir,"  she  went  on. 
"An"  the  children  was  to  the  country  two  weeks  in 
August.  It  done 'em  so  much  good;  I  hardly  knew 
Gerty  when  she  come  home." 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  move,  Mrs.  Mulholland," 
said  Immanuel.  "This  house  must  come  down  next 
week." 

"Come  down!  Oh,  Lord  save  us,  what  for?  Just 
as  we're  fixed  so  nice  an'  comf  table." 

"  You  shall  go  into  one  of  my  new  houses,  my  good 
woman.  I  will  see  that  you  are  moved.  You  will  be 
far  more  comfortable  there  than  you  are  here.  Will 
you  not  enjoy  three  rooms  and  a  closet;  with  water  in 
your  kitchen  and  -  But  you  shall  see  for  yourself, 
you  and  Lizzy." 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  "  We  couldn't  never 
pay  fur  three  rooms,"  she  said  hopelessly.  "I  ain't 
makin'  but  six  pairs  a  day;  1  can't  do  no  more;  an'  the 
children  eat  an  awful  lot." 

His  eyes  moistened.  "  The  rent  will  be  no  higher," 
he  said  gently.  "I  am  sorry,  but  you  will  have  to  go. 
I  will  pay  you  and  the  others  for  lost  time,  and  Brown 
will  move  you.  Don't  be  afraid,  Mrs.  Mulholland,  I 
mean  to  help  you  all  1  can." 


IE     WOMAN"     HTAREIJ     WITH     LACIi 
TI1E     SLIM     FIUUKK     IN     THE 


TENEMENTS  AND  TEARS  297 

"I  know  right  well  you  do,  sir,"  cried  the  woman. 
"  There  ain't  many  like  you,  Mr.  Rossi.  I'll  do  just  as 
you  say,  an'  may  heaven  bless  you  an'  this  sweet 
young  lady!  "  She  turned  to  Hilda,  who  was  tapping 
her  foot  impatiently  on  the  dirty  floor.  "This  ain't  no 
place  fur  the  likes  of  her,"  she  added  in  a  whisper. 
"Lord!  if  my  Lizzy  was  like  her!" 

They  stopped  at  three  or  four  other  doors  as  they 
went  down.  In  one  room  a  young  Italian  woman  was 
mourning  the  death  of  her  first-born.  She  took  no 
notice  of  their  presence,  but  wailed  and  rocked  herself 
to  and  fro  in  tearless  anguish.  Hilda  drew  away  from 
the  little  coffin  with  a  shiver.  "Don't  ask  me  to 
stay  here,"  she  whispered  sharply;  "  I  can't  bear  it!" 

Immanuel  stooped  over  the  young  mother  and 
whispered  something  in  her  own  tongue.  She  looked 
up,  her  great  eyes  fixed  and  staring,  then  burst  into 
tumultuous  sobbing. 

"She  will  be  better  now,"  he  said  to  the  swarthy 
woman  in  a  gaudy  neckerchief  and  earrings  who  sat 
at  the  mourner's  side.  "  Give  her  this,"  and  he  slipped 
a  folded  bill  into  the  hard  palm. 

"What  did  you  say  to  her?"  asked  Hilda  curiously, 
as  they  emerged  into  the  street.  "How  thankful  I  am 
to  be  out  of  that  dreadful  place!"  she  exclaimed, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer.  "Must  I  see  any 
more  ?  My  head  aches  dreadfully  from  the  disgusting 
smells — ugh!  " 

"What  if  you  were  forced  to  live  there  always?" 
he  asked  quietly. 

"  I  just  wouldn't!  "  she  cried.  "  I  am  not  that  sort 
of  a  person;  respectable  people  never  live  like  that! " 
A  frowsy  woman  with  her  bonnet  askew  brushed 


298  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

against  the  crisp  skirts  as  they  turned  the  corner. 
Hilda  shuddered.  "I  don't  think  this  is  a  nice  place 
for  me  to  be  in,"  she  said  fretfully;  "I  shall  just  ruin 
my  new  dress! " 

He  looked  down  at  her  in  silent  dismay.  "Never 
mind  the  gown,"  he  said  at  last;  "you  shall  buy  a  new 
one.  But  I  must  show  you  —  1  am  so  anxious  that 
you  should  understand,  Hilda!  " 

The  note  of  mingled  anxiety  and  entreaty  in  his  voice 
brought  a  smile  to  her  lips.  "What  if  1  don't  choose 
to  understand  ?  "  she  said  within  herself.  Aloud  she  re 
peated  her  request  to  return  to  the  hotel.  "You 
can  tell  me  about  it  all  just  as  well,  can't  you,  dear  ?  " 
she  cooed.  "I  never  could  endure  the  sight  of  such 
wretchedness.  1  am  so  tender-hearted;  it  always 
makes  me  unhappy  for  hours  afterward!  " 

"But  to  help  the  unhappiness  of  others,"  he  urged, 
"  is  the  only  real  happiness;  and  how  can  we  help  it 
if  we  don't  know  it  is  there?" 

Hilda  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  It  may  do  for  some 
people  with  strong  nerves,"  she  said  positively;  "but 
it  will  not  do  for  me.  I  just  can't  endure  dirt  and 
smells;  it  makes  me  ill!  " 

"That  is  exactly  the  point,"  he  said  eagerly.  "It 
makes  them  ill.  Didn't  you  see  the  girl's  face,  and  the 
children,  how  gray  and  pinched  they  were?" 

"  Yes,  but  how  are  you  really  going  to  help  them  ? 
You  will  move  them  into  a  cleaner  place,  I  dare  say; 
but  the  woman  will  have  to  work  just  the  same.  You 
couldn't  help  that.  I  know  I  am  very  stupid,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  ignorant  people  will  have  to  do  what 
they  can,  and  take  what  they  can  get  for  their  work." 

"  You  are  not  stupid  at  all,  my  dear,"  he  said,  look- 


TENEMENTS  AND  TEARS  299 

ing  down  at  her  with  some  amazement.  He  had  ex 
pected — he  hardly  knew  what — from  his  wife,  sym 
pathy,  certainly,  eager  compliance  with  his  plans,  a 
soft  womanly  compassion  for  these  suffering  toilers. 
But  this  shrewd  probing  to  the  root  of  social  condi 
tions  seemed  singularly  inappropriate  as  associated 
with  long-lashed  violet  eyes  and  soft  rose-tinted 
cheeks. 

He  drew  away  from  his  wife  a  little,  the  better  to 
look  at  her  in  this  new  light.  "  It  is  a  question  which 
involves  the  very  foundations  of  business  and  social 
relations,"  he  said  slowly.  "  It  is  all  wrong  at  present. 
That  woman  is  working  for  a  sweater  at  starvation 
wages.  She  has  a  right  to  fair  wages  for  her  work 
and  a  decent  home  to  live  in." 

"There  must  be  thousands  like  her,"  she  said  coldly. 

"Yes,  thousands  upon  thousands.  And  some,  as 
the  poor  thing  said,  even  worse  off  than  she.  I  found 
her  paying  an  exorbitant  rent  for  that  wretched  attic, 
her  children  slowly  starving  to  death;  the  girl,  Lizzy, 
in  a  sweat-shop.  I  did  what  I  could." 

"What  did  you  do  ?" 

"  I  reduced  the  rent  to  begin  with;  gave  them  food, 
—oh,  it  was  nothing!  But  there  are  so  many — so 
many!" 

"  Do  you  intend  to  spend  all  your  money  in  this  way  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Will  it  do  any  good  in  the  end  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell.     I  only  know  what  I  must  do." 

There  was  silence  between  the  two  after  this  till 
they  reached  their  hotel.  Immanuel  was  bitterly  dis 
appointed,  though  he  could  have  scarcely  told  why. 
Hilda  was  thinking.  Her  air-castle  lay  in  ruins  about 


300  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

her;  but  a  substantial  foundation  was  already  laid  for 
a  structure  of  quite  another  sort. 

"You  must  think  me  very  foolish,  dear  Immanuel," 
she  said  to  him  after  luncheon;  "  but  please  remember 
that  I  never  visited  a  city  slum  before.  I  was  so 
shaken  by  it  that  I  am  not  quite  myself  yet." 

His  eyes  brightened  as  they  rested  upon  her.  She 
was  lying  back  in  the  depths  of  a  wicker  chair,  her 
fair  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  Something  in  her  attitude 
reminded  him  of  the  day  when  she  had  appeared  to 
him  in  the  guise  of  a  pure  young  angel  freshly  de 
scended  from  the  blue.  "I  ought  to  have  told  you 
about  it,"  he  said  penitently.  "  I  suppose  1  can  hardly 
imagine  how  such  sights  would  appear  to  eyes  accus 
tomed  only  to  comfortable  village  life.  I  am  inured  to 
it  by  actual  experience."  Then  he  told  her  of  his 
guardian's  experiment,  and  of  his  own  subsequent  resi 
dence  in  the  real  slums. 

"And  did  you  really  live  in  one  of  those  elegant 
houses  we  saw  yesterday?"  she  asked  eagerly.  "I 
wish  I  could  see  it!  " 

"You  did  see  it,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  her  pretty 
enthusiasm.  "  Do  you  remember  calling  my  attention 
to  a  lady  and  two  little  girls  coming  down  the  steps  to 
their  carriage  ?  " 

"  Was  it  that  house  ?    Oh,  Immanuel !  " 

"The  money  required  to  keep  that  house  up  for  one 
year  would  save  a  thousand  children  from  starvation," 
he  answered  deliberately. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  wrong  to  love  beautiful  houses 
and  pretty  things  ?  "  she  asked  tremulously. 

His  stern  young  face  softened  as  he  saw  the  color 
rise  in  her  cheeks.  After  all  she  was  only  going  over 


TENEMENTS  AND  TEARS  301 

the  same  ground  where  he  had  himself  almost  been 
beaten.  For  an  instant  he  allowed  himself  to  picture 
her  in  surroundings  such  as  he  could  give  her.  She 
was  young  and  very  beautiful;  she  would  shine  like  a 
star,  he  told  himself,  in  one  of  the  palaces  yonder. 
Then  he  drew  a  deep  breath.  But  it  was  all  a  mistake: 
"Life — life  consisteth  not  in  the  abundance  of  things 
which  a  man  hath."  He  repeated  the  words  aloud — 
almost  timidly.  They  had  never  talked  much  of  their 
religion — these  two.  She  had  told  him  with  a  pretty, 
serious  air  that  she  was  a  member  of  the  church,  and 
he  had  forborne  to  question  her.  The  sanctuary  of 
that  maiden  heart  had  seemed  to  him  too  sacred — too 
holy  to  invade.  "  I  know  that  we  are  one  at  heart," 
he  added  after  a  long  pause.  "We  cannot  arrange 
our  lives  after  the  world  pattern — we  who  are  follow 
ers  of  Him  who  came  not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to 
minister." 

Hilda  was  silent.  She  was  hoping  that  Immanuel 
was  not  going  to  be  disagreeably  religious.  She  had 
joined  the  church  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  more  to  rid  her 
self  of  the  distasteful  homilies  of  her  Sunday-school 
teacher  and  pastor  than  for  any  other  reason.  She  be 
lieved  vaguely  but  comfortably  that  this  act  entitled 
her  to  admission  to  a  dubious  "heaven,"  where  people 
wore  white  dresses  all  the  time,  and  played  unremit 
tingly  on  golden  harps.  The  question  of  salvation 
having  been  settled  thus  easily,  she  did  not  often 
trouble  herself  about  what  she  termed  "such  matters." 
"Goody-goody  people  always  make  me  awfully 
cross,"  she  was  accustomed  to  declare  with  a  charm 
ing  smile.  "I  fairly  shiver  and  turn  green  when 
people  begin  to  quote  Scripture  at  me  and  that  sort  of 


302  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

thing."  Remarks  of  the  kind  were  frequently  ad 
dressed  to  an  audience  of  her  youthful  admirers,  and 
were  regarded  as  exquisitely  witty,  judging  from  the 
applause  and  laughter  with  which  they  were  invariably 
received. 

She  sat  quite  still  now,  her  eyes  downcast.  After  a 
little  the  corners  of  her  mouth  twitched;  in  another 
instant  two  big  tears  chased  each  other  swiftly  down 
her  pink  cheeks;  then  a  diminutive  handkerchief  was 
called  into  action,  and  the  blond  head  went  down  on 
to  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"Why,  darling — darling!  What  is  the  matter? 
What  have  I  said  to  grieve  you?"  He  took  the  little 
sobbing  figure  in  his  arms,  and  soothed  her  against 
his  breast,  as  tenderly  as  her  mother  might  have  done. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  this  exquisite,  fragile  creature 
had  no  mother;  that  she  was  as  much  alone  in  the 
world  as  he  was  himself.  He  rebuked  himself  sharply 
for  his  obtuseness,  his  hardness  of  heart.  What  after 
all  were  any  number  of  seamstresses  or  slum  children 
to  him,  compared  with  this  one  woman  whom  he  had 
vowed  to  love,  to  cherish  and  console  above  all  others. 
He  had  never  before  seen  Hilda  in  tears,  and  the  sight 
moved  him  profoundly.  How  was  he  to  guess  that 
the  shallow  current  of  those  tears  was  as  easily  turned 
on  as  a  faucet.  She  had  wept  when  she  wanted  a  new 
gown,  and  papa  had  come  down  handsomely  with  the 
requisite  cash.  She  had  wept  when  her  lessons  were 
difficult,  and  the  most  obdurate  of  teachers  had  quickly 
smoothed  out  all  the  tangles.  It  was  a  most  useful 
accomplishment;  Hilda  had  practiced  it  from  her  child 
hood  up,  and  might  have  been  termed  a  past  master  in 
the  art. 


TENEMENTS  AND  TEARS  303 

'  She  allowed  herself  to  be  soothed  after  awhile,  and 
looking  up  from  her  shelter  into  the  anxious  face  bent 
over  her  permitted  him  to  see  how  pretty  she  was. 
Some  peopled  eyes  grow  unbecomingly  swollen  and 
red  during  such  exercise  of  the  emotions,  but  not 
Hilda's.  The  tears  sparkled  in  the  blue  eyes  and  amid 
the  long  lashes  like  dewdrops.  The  pink  cheeks  were 
like  rain-drenched  rose  petals.  Immanuel  kissed  them 
remorsefully.  "  Dearest,"  he  murmured.  "  Dearest!  " 

"Am  1  really  the  dearest?"  asked  Hilda,  in  a  tremu 
lous  little  voice  which  matched  the  dewdrops  and  rose 
petals  to  perfection. 

"Why  of  course  you  are,  dear,  dear  little  wife; 
who  else  could  there  be!  You  are  all  that  I  have  that 
is  dearest  and  sweetest  in  this  big  lonesome  world!  " 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  cared  more  for  Mrs. — Mrs. 
Mul-holland!  "  Recurring  sobs  shook  the  low  voice, 
which  nevertheless  ended  in  a  triumphant  little  laugh. 
"  But  you  don't,  and  I  am  so  glad!  I  am  just  a  foolish 
little  thing,  dear;  1  simply  can't  pretend  to  be  wise  and 
good.  I  am  just — Hilda!  " 


CHAPTER  XXX 
Hilda  Makes  a  New  Friend 

LET  no  one  make  the  mistake  of  supposing  that 
Hilda  Rossi  was  guilty  of  deliberate  hypocrisy. 
This  wonderful,  terrible  human  nature  of  ours — the 
Ego  which  has  emerged  from  unknown  depths  through 
slow,  dim  ages  of  evolution  holds  within  itself  the 
coldness  of  the  rock,  the  immobile  selfishness  of  the 
vegetable,  the  pitiless  greed  and  cunning  of  the  beast 
enfolded  sheathlike  about  that  unchanging  spark  of  the 
divine  which  abides  in  every  soul — the  true  and  only 
source  of  its  being.  Thus  it  is  that  the  world  is  made 
up  of  unfinished  Christs  in  all  stages  of  their  develop 
ment.  Let  but  the  God-flame  penetrate  into  the  dark 
ened  consciousness,  then  is  accomplished  the  divine 
at-one-ment;  then  does  the  soul  return  to  the  Father 
from  whence  it  came;  then  is  the  vast  cycle  of  the 
ages  completed — the  coming  forth  and  the  going  back 
merged  in  the  changeless  poise  of  the  Eternal.  We 
know  this,  that  we  shall  be  like  Him;  and  to  this  end 
does  the  Master-workman  work  in  and  through  all, 
filling  all  things  with  His  fulness. 

Hilda  was  selfish  as  a  seedling  oak — or  a  baby — with 
whom  selfishness  is  at  once  the  law  of  being  and  of 
preservation.  The  Flame  burned  as  yet  in  the  sealed 
crypt  of  her  unguessed  self.  Her  mind  was  tranquil; 
her  health  perfect,  her  cunning  quite  unperceived  by 
herself,  so  much  a  part  of  that  self  did  it  seem.  The 

3°4 


HILDA  MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND       305 

altruistic  idea  had  not  yet  presented  itself  to  her  con 
sciousness  in  any  compelling  form.  To  deny  self — to 
overcome,  these  were  meaningless  sounds  in  her  ears. 
She  was  not  a  hypocrite;  she  was  perfectly  sincere 
and  true  to  herself  as  she  knew  that  self. 

And  because  one  does  not  easily  perceive  in  another 
that  which  has  ceased  to  exist  in  one's  self,  Immanuel, 
who  had  climbed  to  a  higher  plane,  and  in  whom  love 
ruled,  saw  in  his  young  wife  the  ideal  woman.  The 
vague  soreness  and  disappointment  which  settled 
down  upon  him  like  a  cloud  as  he  left  her  that  after 
noon  he  attributed  to  his  own  lack  of  perception.  "  I 
have  expected  too  much  of  her,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"I  must  be  patient." 

Hilda  was  glad  to  be  left  alone;  she  was  feeling 
pleasantly  languid  after  the  exertions  and  emotions  of 
the  morning.  She  therefore  settled  herself  by  the 
window  determined  to  enjoy  uninterruptedly  the  pa 
geant  of  the  city  street,  which  impressed  her  as  being 
delightfully  exciting.  As  her  eyes  followed  the  unend 
ing  stream  of  busses,  cars,  carriages,  and  people,  she 
smiled  with  unmeaning  triumph.  "  I  just  wish  Amelia 
Hurd  could  see  me  now,"  she  said  to  herself,  and 
twisted  the  diamond  on  her  finger  so  that  patches  of 
brilliant  color  played  upon  her  gown.  "  Wouldn't  she 
be  jealous,  though!  " 

A  carnage  was  drawing  up  before  the  entrance  be 
low;  she  leaned  forward  to  stare  at  its  occupant,  a 
stout,  richly-dressed  lady,  as  she  stepped  slowly  out. 
"My!  "  she  murmured,  "  wouldn't  it  be  lovely  to  have 
a  carriage  like  that,  and  go  everywhere  I  liked,  to  the 

stores,  and  the  theatre,  and "  She  paused  in  the 

current  of  her  meditations  to  wonder  where  people 


306  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

who  had  carriages  did  go,  anyway.  Her  knowledge 
of  fashionable  life  was  extremely  limited,  consisting 
mainly  of  vague  but  magnificent  visions  of  trailing 
gowns,  blazing  jewels,  and  an  unlimited  variety  of 
good  things  to  eat.  Hilda  was  something  of  a  gour 
mand  in  an  inexperienced  way;  she  was  eating  bon 
bons  now  out  of  a  pasteboard  box  with  childish 
relish. 

A  knock  at  the  door  brought  first  a  surprised  stare, 
then  a  stereotyped  "  Come  in!  "  in  a  high  girlish  treble. 
The  knock  was  repeated,  and  with  a  little  exclamation 
of  vexation  she  crossed  the  room  and  opened  the  door. 
A  servant  stood  without  holding  a  salver,  which  in  its 
turn  held  a  small  square  of  white  pasteboard. 

"  Shall  I  show  the  lady  up,  ma'am  ?  " 

Hilda  glanced  uncertainly  toward  the  mirror.  "  Yes, 
of  course,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  haughty  condescen 
sion.  "  Show  her  up  at  once." 

"  Mrs.  Caleb  Smalley,"  she  read;  "  why,  it  must  be 
that  lawyer's  wife.  1  wonder  if  I  ought  to  say  any 
thing  about  the  silver."  Her  fingers  trembled  with 
agitation  as  she  fastened  up  a  stray  lock  of  yellow 
hair  and  pulled  the  ribbons  higher  about  her  white 
throat.  She  decided  in  the  interval  that  elapsed  before 
a  second  knock  announced  her  visitor,  that  as  this  per 
son  was  the  wife  of  a  man  in  her  husband's  employ,  a 
toplofty  demeanor  would  be  both  elegant  and  suitable. 
But  her  resolution  was  somewhat  dashed  by  the  im 
posing  individual  who  rustled  forward  with  out 
stretched  hand. 

Mrs.  Caleb  Smalley  was  tall  and  portly;  she  was  at 
tired  with  the  magnificence  which  became  the  wife  of 
one  of  New  York's  leading  lawyers.  Huge  diamonds 


HILDA  MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND       307 

flashed  from  her  large  pink  ears;  plumes  waved  in 
stately  luxuriance  above  her  rotund  countenance;  satin, 
velvet,  lace,  fur  and  »cloth  blent  in  a  bewildering  cos 
tume,  which  effectually  swept  the  last  trace  of  arro 
gance  from  the  blue  eyes  of  her  hostess. 

"  I  came  at  once,  my  dear,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  with 
ingratiating  emphasis  and  profuse  smiles;  "the  very 
moment  I  heard  you  were  here.  Why  did  you  not  let 
us  know  at  once?" 

Hilda  stammered  out  a  few  words  to  the  effect  that 
they  had  come  quite  unexpectedly.  She  felt  unpleas 
antly  young  and  ignorant.  What  was  worse,  the 
gown  of  which  she  had  felt  so  sure,  had  become  on 
the  instant  "countrified,"  than  which  there  was  no 
more  damning  adjective  in  Hilda's  vocabulary. 

"When  Mr.  Smalley  sent  me  word  not  an  hour 
since  that  you  were  here,  and  probably  at  home,"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  Smalley,  "  I  lost  not  an  instant,  but  or 
dered  the  carriage  at  once.  \  said  to  myself,  '  I  know 
dear  Mrs.  Rossi  will  pardon  me  if  I  come  sans  cere- 
monie.'  We  have  so  hoped  that  your  husband  would 
bring  you  up  to  town.  Of  course  the  country  is 
charming  in  the  summer  time — perfectly  charming,  I 
love  the  country!  but  for  winter  you  know,  there  is 
really  no  place  on  earth  like  New  York.  We  prefer  it 
to  Paris,  London  or  any  of  the  foreign  capitals!"  The 
lady  paused  to  flash  a  particularly  gracious  smile  at  the 
young  woman  opposite,  whom  she  had  already  classi 
fied  as  a  hopelessly  timid  and  awkward  country 
beauty,  with  neither  birth  nor  breeding. 

Subtly  aware  of  her  visitor's  conclusions  and  filled 
with  helpless  wrath  thereat,  Hilda  straightened  her 
small  head  defiantly.  "  My  husband  prefers  the  coun- 


308  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

try,"  she  said  with  a  curl  of  her  ripe  lips.  ' '  Of  course, 
we  could  live  anywhere  we  chose." 

"Of  course  you  could,  my  dear! "  echoed  her  vis 
itor,  swiftly  modifying  at  least  one  of  her  previous 
impressions.  "  There  is  no  earthly  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  have  houses  in  a  dozen  places.  You  must 
pardon  me  if  I  talk  like  a  mother  to  you,  my  dear;  of 
course  we  have  known  all  about  Mr.  Rossi's  affairs  so 
long,  and  I  assure  you  that  Mr.  Smalley  loves  him  like 
a  father — just  like  a  father!  " 

"You  are  very  good,  I  am  sure,"  said  Hilda  prettily. 
She  had  begun  to  feel  the  ground  under  her  feet  once 
more,  and  was  proportionately  herself  again. 

"  Mr.  Smalley  has  been  trying  for  a  long  time  to 
persuade  Mr.  Rossi  to  invest  more  largely  in  city  real 
estate,"  pursued  Mrs.  Smalley,  with  another  of  her  ex 
pansive  smiles,  accompanied  by  arching  brows  and 
nodding  plumes.  "  We  should  so  love  to  have  you 
near  us !  There  is  a  perfect  love  of  a  house  for  sale 
now,  not  three  blocks  from  us,  in  the  most  fashionable 
quarter.  It  is  really  a  providential  opportunity!  " 

"  I  should  like  to  live  in  New  York,"  said  Hilda,  her 
blue  eyes  sparkling  with  new  interest.  "I  should  be 
perfectly  happy  here,  I  know,  but  — 

"Then  why  do  you  say  '  but,'  my  dear  ?"  demanded 
the  other,  with  a  playful  little  gesture,  expressive  of 
the  fondest  intimacy.  "  1  am  sure  Mr.  Rossi  must  be 
already  completely  at  the  beck  and  call  of  that  dainty 
little  white  hand.  Besides,  it  would  be  so  much  bet 
ter  for  him;  so  many  of  his  interests  are  here." 

Hilda  blushed  with  pleasure.  She  was  beginning  to 
think  this  magnificently  dressed  lady  very  agreeable 
indeed.  "1  only  meant  that  we  have  just  had  our 


HILDA  MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND       309 

house  fixed,  and '  She  stopped  short  and  blushed 

again,  this  time  with  mortification,  as  though  the 
shrewd  eyes  behind  the  gold-rimmed  glasses  were 
looking  directly  at  their  humble  housekeeping.  She 
thought  with  a  thrill  of  anger  that  Immanuel  should 
not  have  taken  her  to  such  a  house. 

"That  does  not  signify,  I  am  sure,"  Mrs.  Smalley 
was  saying  smoothly.  "It  is  a  small  estate,  is  it 
not?" 

"  No,"  said  Hilda  carelessly,  "  it  is  a  large  place;  but 
I  don't  care  much  for  the  neighborhood.  It  is  rather 
lonely,  I  mean,"  she  concluded,  again  fixing  envious 
eyes  upon  the  appointments  of  her  visitor's  toilet. 

The  other  graciously  permitted  this  for  an  instant; 
then  she  arose  with  a  grand  rustle  of  concealed  mag 
nificence,  which  depressed  poor  Hilda  more  than  what 
she  saw.  "  I  should  be  so  pleased  if  you  would  drive 
with  me  awhile  this  afternoon,"  she  said  exuding,  as 
it  were,  kindness  with  the  odor  of  violets.  "Have 
you  any  other  engagement  ?" 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Hilda,  wrinkling  her  pretty  fore 
head  affectedly.  "Mr.  Rossi  and  I  are  going  to  the 
opera  this  evening;  but — no,  I  believe  I  have  no  other 
engagement  for  this  afternoon." 

"Then  put  on  your  hat  at  once,  my  love;  we  will 
have  such  a  nice  visit  in  the  open  air." 

Under  the  brilliantly  clear  light  of  the  afternoon  sky 
Hilda's  fresh  young  loveliness  impressed  the  older 
woman  anew.  It  would  really  make  quite  a  sensa 
tion,  she  told  herself;  and  immediately  began  to  con 
sider  this  beauty  in  the  light  of  a  substantial  round  in 
the  social  ladder  she  was  laboriously  engaged  in  climb 
ing.  This  exquisitely  beautiful  Mrs.  Rossi  could  be 


3io  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

quickly  run  through  the  social  mould;  she  would  come 
out — Mrs.  Smalley  easily  foresaw  it — a  finished  society 
woman.  The  rest  was  easy,  and  the  glory  would  be 
hers.  She  initiated  the  educational  process  with  her 
next  remark.  "  You  and  your  husband  will  dine  with 
us  enfamilee  to-morrow  evening,  I  hope." 

Hilda  wondered  a  little  over  the  French  words;  but 
answered  cautiously  that  she  would  be  most  happy  if 
her  husband  had  made  no  other  plans.  "  Perhaps  he 
intends  for  us  to  go  home,"  she  added,  with  a  doubt 
ful  glance  at  the  benign  curves  of  Mrs.  Smalley's  high- 
colored  visage. 

"Not  to-morrow!"  cried  that  lady.  "Why,  we 
haven't  seen  anything  of  you  yet!  Oh,  these  men! 
my  dear,  you  will  have  to  take  a  few  lessons  of  an 
experienced  matron  like  myself  in  the  art  of  getting 
your  own  way.  I  shouldn't  say  this,"  she  added,  "if 
it  were  not  far  better  for  them — the  men,  I  mean. 
Left  to  themselves  they  sometimes  have  such  strange 
notions.  Now,  dear  Mr.  Rossi  was  brought  up  ex 
clusively  by  a  man — his  uncle;  I  dare  say  you  have 
heard  all  about  him  ?" 

Hilda  admitted  that  she  knew  very  little  about  Mr. 
Moses  Armitage.  Her  bright  eyes  were  fastened  on 
the  face  of  her  hostess  with  an  eagerness  which  did 
not  escape  that  vigilant  lady. 

"You  won't  think  me  unpardonably  rude,  I  trust,  if 
I  say  to  you  quite  in  confidence,  my  dear,  that  Mr. 
Armitage  was  a  man  of  the  most  unfortunately  erratic 
turn  of  mind.  It  was  most  unfortunate  for  poor,  dear 
Mr.  Rossi!  My  husband  has  told  me  over  and  over 
again,  that  never  in  the  whole  course  of  his  legal 
practice  has  he  met  with  a  person  so — so  misguided. 


HILDA  MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND       311 

Poor  Mr.  Rossi  was  devoted  to  him,  and  I  presume, 
never  suspected  with  what  injustice  he  was  treated. 
Mr.  Armitage  was  his  sole  guardian,  you  know,  and 
he  actually  denied  the  child  all  the  advantages  due  to 
his  position  as  heir  of  the  immense  Armitage  estate. 
Why,  the  poor  boy  never  knew  that  he  was  anything 
but  a  penniless  orphan  until  he  was  almost  of  age! 
They  lived  in  tenement  houses,  and  — 

"  He  told  me  about  that,"  murmured  Hilda. 

"  And  what  did  you  think  of  it,  my  dear  ?  " 

"I  thought  it  was  ridiculous,"  said  Hilda,  decidedly. 

"My  dear!  I  am  so  relieved  to  hear  you  say  that!  " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Smalley,  pressing  the  other's  hand 
fondly  in  both  her  own.  "I  have  told  you  that  Mr. 
Smalley  is  devoted  to  your  husband — that  he  loves 
him  like  a  father.  He  has  been  so  distressed  to  see 
Mr.  Armitage's  unfortunate  influence  actually  blighting 
what  would  otherwise  be  a  most  brilliant  career.  But 
you  can  save  him.  I  see  that  you  will." 

Hilda  was  somewhat  puzzled;  but  she  felt  an  agree 
able  sympathy  with  her  half  fledged  ambitions,  which 
prompted  her  to  say,  "I  don't  think  I  quite  under 
stand.  What  is  it  that  I  must  save  him  from,  Mrs. 
Smalley  ?" 

"Hasn't  he  told  you  about  his  tenements  ?  Poor, 
dear  man,  he  has  such  a  sweet  nature,  and  of  course 
is  the  more  easily  led  away  by  his  sympathies."  Mrs. 
Smalley  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  arched  her  brows 
pityingly. 

"I  spent  the  morning  in  a  tenement  house — if  that 
is  what  you  call  it,"  replied  Hilda,  "the  most  dreadful 
place,  full  of  dirty  children  and  crying  women,  and 
smells!  Ugh!  it  made  me  quite  ill!  " 


312  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"Of  course  it  did !  I  could  see  at  a  glance,  my  love, 
that  you  are  so  exquisitely  organized  that  you  could 
not  endure  anything  of  the  kind.  That  is  just  the  way 
with  me.  I  really  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  suffering! 
I  always  tell  my  husband  to  keep  any  horrors  out  of 
my  way.  If  one  could  help  it;  but  of  course  that  is 
utterly  impossible.  There  are  these  dreadfully  poor 
people  of  the  masses,  and  there  always  will  be.  I 
hold  that  it  is  my  Christian  duty  to  keep  myself  bright 
and  cheerful  that  I  may  act  the  part  of  wife  and 
mother  as  I  should.  I  must  really  remonstrate  with 
Mr.  Rossi  seriously.  To  expose  a  young  wife  to  such 
an  unpleasant  experience!  Really  he  ought  to  know 
better."  Mrs.  Smalley's  feelings  were  so  excessively 
warm  and  motherly  at  this  point  that  she  became 
almost  hysterical. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  go  again,"  said  Hilda,  com 
fortably;  "I  don't  like  tenements." 

"I  should  hope  not,  poor  dear,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Smalley.  "  You  would  like  them  less  than  ever,  I 
fancy,  if  you  realized  what  the  fatal  craze  on  the  part 
of  the  late  Mr.  Armitage  was  likely  to  lead  to." 

"What  will  it  lead  to?  "said  Hilda,  full  of  vague 
alarms. 

"In  the  first  place  it  will  lead  to  a  sadly  narrow, 
restricted  career  for  you.  You  will  forgive  me  if  I 
take  a  great  liberty  and  tell  you  just  what  is  in  my 
heart,  will  you,  dear  ?  " 

"Yes,  certainly,"  murmured  Hilda  uneasily.  She 
felt  instinctively  that  her  husband  would  disapprove 
of  the  conversation;  yet  she  longed  to  understand  the 
situation  from  a  different  standpoint  from  her  own. 
She  was  shrewd  enough  to  guess  that  the  excessive 


HILDA  MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND       313 

interest  and  affection  shown  by  this  comparative 
stranger  must  be  unreal;  but  she  nevertheless  resolved 
to  take  advantage  of  it  for  the  moment. 

"You  are  just  made  for  a  full,  generous,  delightful 
life,"  pursued  Mrs.  Smalley,  gushingly.  "Has  any 
one  ever  told  you  that  you  are  a  perfectly  exquisite 
little  beauty  ?  But  I  dare  say  your  husband  has  eyes 
for  that  much;  only  he  must  not  be  selfish  and  keep 
you  all  to  himself.  You  were  never  made  for  the 
country;  no  indeed,  my  dear!" 

Hilda  blushed  charmingly  and  displayed  her  eye 
lashes.  "  I  don't  like  the  country,"  she  said  simply. 

"Then  that  is  the  very  best  of  reasons  why  you 
should  not  stay  there.  But  I  started  to  tell  you  about 
the  tenements;  and  I  do  feel  that  I  am  very  bold  in 
deed;  I  fear  Mr.  Rossi  would  never  forgive  me." 

"  I  shall  not  tell  him,"  said  Hilda  calmly. 

"Oh,  you  naughty  girl!  don't  you  know  young 
wives  are  supposed  to  tell  their  husbands  everything  ? 
Perhaps  we  learn  better  after  a  while;  but  that's  the 
way  we  all  have  to  begin.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  my 
love,  these  tenements  are  going  to  eat  up  your  hus 
band's  fortune  in  no  time."  She  had  not  been  saying 
anything  of  the  sort,  and  she  was  wholly  unprepared 
for  the  astonishing  effect  of  these  words  upon  Hilda. 

The  rosy  face  blanched;  the  violet  eyes  darkened 
with  terror.  "  Eat  up  all  his  fortune!  "  she  echoed,  in 
a  low,  strained  voice,  "what — what  do  you  mean?'' 

"Why,  it's  perfectly  plain,  isn't  it?  though  I'm  not 
much  of  a  business  woman.  If  Mr.  Rossi  insists  upon 
giving  up  his  really  paying  investments  and  putting  all 
his  money  in  these  absurd  '  model  tenements,'  with 
every  sort  of  expensive  luxury  and  convenience  for 


314  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

debased  creatures  who  neither  require  nor  understand 
such  things — it  can't  be  very  long  before " 

"  Is  he — is  he  doing  this  ?  " 

"Of  course  he  is;  hasn't  he  told  you?  He  doesn't 
intend  to  use  his  money  for  anything  else;  he  has  told 
Mr.  Smalley  so.  And  the  property  has  been  going 
down  frightfully  ever  since  he  came  into  it.  Of  course 
it  will  take  a  long  time  to  really  spend  it  all,  for  even 
these  tenements  are  immensely  valuable,  but  they 
don't  bring  in  a  tithe  of  the  income  that  the  old  ones 
do.  And  the  old  ones  are  plenty  good  enough  for  the 
people  who  live  in  them.  If  you  saw  one  this  morn 
ing,  you  know  that  much  yourself." 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  .live  in  one,"  said  Hilda,  with 
surprising  candor. 

"Certainly  not;  neither  should  I.  But  the  people 
who  do  live  in  them  are  perfectly  contented.  They 
don't  want  anything  belter.  There  is  no  sense  in 
comparing  people  of  the  lower  classes  with  you  and 
me;  and  that  is  just  the  mistake  your  good  husband  is 
making.  He  imagines  himself  in  their  place — as  if  he 
could  be  there!  Their  standards  are  entirely  different 
from  ours,  and  their  surroundings  are  exactly  what 
they  choose  and  make  for  themselves.  One  might  as 
well  undertake  to  make  a  pig  comfortable  and  con 
tented  in  my  drawing-room,  because  indeed  /  should 
not  enjoy  a  sty."  Mrs.  Smalley  was  the  able  president 
of  a  woman's  club,  and  upon  this  occasion  she  called 
into  play  some  of  her  much  lauded  forensic  ability. 
"  I  have  looked  into  this  subject  deeply,  my  dear,"  she 
added  impressively,  "and  1  assure  you  that  your  hus 
band  is  arraying  himself  single-handed  against  the 
most  intelligent  and  conservative  classes  in  a  body!  " 


HILDA  MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND       315 

The  carnage  was  rolling  swiftly  through  a  smoothly 
paved  avenue  as  they  talked,  and  now  its  mistress 
seemed  suddenly  to  awake  to  her  surroundings. 
"Stop  here  for  a  moment,  Smith,"  she  said,  address 
ing  her  coachman. 

Then  turning  to  Hilda,  "Just  look  at  this  house,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Rossi,  and  tell  me  if  you  like  it.  I  think  it 
is  just  what  you  want." 

Hilda  drew  a  quick  breath  of  awe  and  longing.  She 
mentally  contrasted  the  ornate  pile  of  granite  with  the 
humble  little  house  on  the  back  hill-road.  "  Wouldn't 
it  cost  a  great  deal  of  money  to  keep  it  up  ? "  she 
asked,  her  husband's  words  about  a  thousand  starving 
children  recurring  unpleasantly  to  her  mind. 

"Certainly  not  more  than  you  can  well  afford," 
smiled  Mrs.  Smalley.  "Have  you  the  remotest  idea 
of  what  your  husband's  income  is,  my  love  ?" 

"  He  told  me  how  much  he  inherited  from  his 
grandfather,"  said  Hilda,  looking  down,  "but  — 

Mrs.  Smalley  gazed  at  the  fair  flushed  face  with  real 
pity.  "Never  mind,  dear,  we  have  talked  business 
quite  long  enough,"  she  said  briskly,  and  turned  the 
conversation  into  a  sprightly  monologue  concerning 
New  York  society,  to  which  Hilda  listened  in  a  tumult 
of  pleasure  and  envy,  not  unmingled  with  fear. 

She  felt  as  she  joined  Immanuel  at  dinner  an  hour 
later,  that  she  had  been  both  deceived  and  misused. 
Her  rights,  as  she  termed  them,  had  begun  to  assume 
certain  definite  proportions,  as  arrayed  against  a  series 
of  chimerical  notions,  from  which  it  was  her  actual 
duty  to  set  her  husband  free. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
A  Dose  of  Bitter  Herbs 

A  WEEK  later  young  Mrs.  Rossi  again  sat  idly 
looking  out  of  the  window.  The  prospect  which 
its  clear  panes  commanded  was  a  wide  one,  including 
a  charming  vista  of  blue  hills  and  smiling  stretches  of 
valley,  with  the  white  spire  of  the  church  at  Tacitus 
Four-Corners  piercing  a  cloudy  group  of  trees.  Nearer 
at  hand  the  bright  afternoon  sunshine  rested  pleasantly 
on  close-cut  slopes  of  velvet  turf,  gay  with  flower- 
borders.  Inside,  a  yellow  canary  trilled  overhead,  a 
clear  fire  purred  in  the  old  fireplace;  great  bunches  of 
golden-rod  and  autumn  leaves  lighted  up  the  friendly 
faces  of  the  books.  It  was  in  short  a  charmingly  com 
fortable  room,  with  a  delightful  outlook,  yet  the  little 
mistress  of  it  looked  sadly  unhappy;  her  slender  figure 
was  relaxed  and  nerveless,  her  red  lips  drooped  dole 
fully,  occasionally  she  wiped  away  a  big  tear  which 
forced  its  way  from  under  her  long  lashes. 

"  I  just  hate  this  place!  "  she  said  aloud,  and  flung 
her  damp  handkerchief  at  the  joyous  canary  with  an 
irritable,  "I  wish  you'd  keep  still!  " 

A  stooped  figure  advancing  slowly  down  the  road 
next  attracted  the  frowning  blue  eyes.  "Dear  me, 
that's  grandma;  I  wonder  what  she  wants?" 

Grandma  had  only  come  to  make  an  afternoon  call. 
She  carried  in  her  aged  bosom  a  feminine  longing  to 
hear  all  about  Hilda's  visit  to  New  York.  "Why 

316 


A  DOSE  OF  BITTER  HERBS  317 

ain't  you  been  to  see  us,  Hildy  ?"  she  asked  with  mild 
reproach  in  her  kind  eyes.  "  Me  an'  Em'line  was 
expectin'  you  'most  all  the  forenoon.  Em'line,  she's 
pretty  near  laid  up  with  neuralgy  in  her  knee.  I 
sez  to  her,  I  guess  I'll  try  an'  git  over  to  Hildy's  this 
afternoon,  I  sez,  an'  see  if  she's  sick.  I  thought  mebbe 
you'd  be  all  tuckered  out  with  trav'lin'  an'  sight-seein', 
an'  I  guess  you  be,  ain't  you,  deary  ?" 

"No,  I'm  not  a  bit  tired,"  said  Hilda  shortly.  Then 
a  childish  temptation  to  air  her  grievances  overcame 
her  reticence.  "  I  didn't  want  to  come  back." 

"Didn't  want  to  come  back! "  echoed  the  old  lady. 
"Why,  what  on  airth  'ud  you  be  doin'  way  off  there? 
Your  home's  here,  child,  an'  home's  the  best  place  for 
a  married  woman."  ,, 

"  I  could  have  a  home  there,"  said  Hilda,  tossing  her 
small  head.  "I  don't  like  the  country  one  bit.  It's 
too  lonesome  here;  I  just  hate  it!  " 

"Fur  the  land's  sake!"  cried  her  grandmother;  "if 
you  ain't  the  most  ungrateful  girl  I  ever  see!  To  think 
of  the  way  'Manuel  worked  to  fix  this  place  up.  An' 
it's  jest  as  han'some  as  a  pictur'  every  room  in  it.  I 
sh'd  think  you'd  have  more  consideration  fur  your 
husban';  he  likes  the  country  an'  so  you'd  ought  to." 

"I  like  the  city  and  he  ought  to!"  retorted  Hilda 
with  spirit.  "  I  don't  believe  in  giving  in  to  a  man  all 
the  while.  If  you  begin  that  way  there's  just  no  end 
to  it.  I  haven't  been  used  to  living  in  such  a  lonesome 
place,  and  I  just  won't  stay  here  this  winter!  " 

Mrs.  Scott's  shrewd  eyes  dwelt  for  some  moments 
on  her  granddaughter  before  she  replied.  "You  ain't 
changed  a  mite  sence  you  was  little,  Hildy,"  she  said 
at  last,  with  considerable  acerbity  of  tone.  "It  was 


3i 8  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

always,  '  I  won't  do  this  because  I  don't  like  to  ';  or  '  I 
will  do  the  other  because  I  like  to.'  I'd  ha'  spanked 
that  will  an'  won't  out  of  you  if  I'd  ha'  had  my  way, 
an'  it  'ud  ha'  been  a  blessin'  to  everybody  if  I  had.  I 
used  to  tell  your  pa  so  time  an'  again!  " 

Hilda  tossed  her  yellow  head  with  an  awogant  curl 
of  her  red  lips.  "Papa  knew  better  than  to  punish 
me,"  she  cried,  with  a  disagreeable  little  laugh.  "I 
could  always  twist  papa  around  my  little  finger!" 

"Don't  you  go  to  tryin'  to  twist  'Manuel  'round 
your  finger,  Hildy,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  earnestly.  "  There 
won't  nothin'  but  misery  come  out  of  it.  It's  good 
Bible  doctrine  'at  the  husban's  the  head  of  the  wife; 
he'd  ought  to  be  too!  " 

"Why,  Grandma  Scott,  you  know  perfectly  well 
that  you've  always  had  your  way.  Grandpa  doesn't 
dare  say  his  soul  is  his  own  unless  he's  out  to  the 
barn!"  The  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  malicious  mis 
chief,  and  the  pink  cheeks  dimpled  with  a  teasing 
smile. 

"I've  been  'bleeged  to  be  firm 'bout  some  things," 
admitted  Mrs.  Scott  with  dignity.  "  But  I've  always 
treated  your  gran'father's  opinions  with  respect." 

"You've  respectfully  and  firmly  laid  them  to  one 
side,"  laughed  Hilda.  "But  I  don't  blame  you;  and 
you  mus'n't  blame  me  if  I  want  to  do  the  same  thing. 
Immanuel's  awfully  rich,  grandma,  and  there  isn't  a 
bit  of  sense  in  our  living  here  if  1  don't  want  to." 

"Awfully  rich!'  repeated  Mrs.  Scott;  "who  said 
so?" 

"He  told  me  so  himself.  But  he's  spending  every 
thing  on  a  lot  of  horrid,  ungrateful  creatures  in  New 
York  who  don't  care  a  bit  about  him.  It's  perfectly. 


A  DOSE  OF  BITTER  HERBS  319 

dreadful,  and  I  mean  to  put  a  stop  to  it.  It's  my 
duty!" 

"Where  is  'Manuel?"  asked  Mrs.  Scott,  surveying 
the  flushed  face,  before  her  with  some  anxiety.  "I 
b'lieve  a  good  hot  dose  of  boneset  tea  'ud  do  you 
good,"  she  added,  reflectively. 

"For  heaven's  sake  don't  mention  it,  grandma!" 
cried  Hilda,  with  a  gesture  of  loathing.  "Of  course 
you  don't  understand;  I'm  sure  I  didn't.  Immanuel 
took  me  to  the  city  on  purpose  to  explain  the  matter. 
I  suppose  he  thought  I'd  be  perfectly  delighted;  but  I 
know  better.  I'm  not  so  stupid  as  he  thinks." 

"Did  you  say  'Manuel  was  out  to  the  barn?"  in 
quired  the  old  lady  mildly.  "I'd  kind  of  like  to  see 
him  before  I  go." 

"  Yes,  and  tell  him  I'm  feverish  and  need  boneset  or 
thoroughwort  or  some  other  loathsome  mess.  I  don't 
know  where  he  is;  I  guess  he's  gone  to  the  post-office. 
But  truly,  grandma,  I'm  not  a  bit  sick;  I'm  just  mad!  " 

"Well,  that's  bein'  sick  enough  fur  boneset!"  said 
Mrs.  Scott  with  spirit.  "I've  give  it  to  you  more'n 
once  when  you  was  little,  an'  it  took  the  spunk  right 
out  of  ye! " 

Hilda  laughed  in  spite  of  herself.  "  Really,  you're 
too  funny,  grandma,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of  patron 
izing  indulgence.  "I  should  think  it  would  take  the 
spunk,  as  you  call  it,  out  of  almost  any  one  the  way 
you  fix  it.  But  I'm  sure  you'd  agree  with  me  if  you 
knew  all  that  I  do."  Thereupon  she  set  forth  at  length 
her  visit  to  New  York,  including  her  interview  with 
Mrs.  Smalley,  the  greater  part  of  whose  remarks  she 
•quoted  with  astonishing  accuracy. 

"That  woman's   a  busy-body,"  quoth  Mrs.  Scott, 


320  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

sententiously.  "She's  got  an  ax  to  grind,  I'll  warrant 
ye!  Don't  you  pay  no  'tention  to  what  she  said." 

"Why,  grandma,  she  was  perfectly  lovely!  You 
ought  to  have  seen  her  dress,  all  lined  with  silk 
and " 

"Fine  feathers  don't  make  fine  birds,"  said  the  old 
lady,  shaking  her  head.  "She  was  tryin'  to  set  you 
against  your  husban',  an'  that's  what  no  lady'll  ever 
do,  whether  her  dress  is  lined  with  silk  or  caliker. 
Now,  Hildy,  I'd  advise  ye  to  put  this  hull  thing  outen 
your  head.  You've  got  as  nice  a  home  here  as  any 
woman  need  ask  for,  an'  as  good  a  husban'.  As  fur 
as  I  kin  make  out  from  what  you  say,  'Manuel's  got 
the  right  of  it.  He  ain't  a  mite  selfish." 

"I  call  it  disgustingly  selfish  to  think  more  of  those 
horrid  slum  people  than  he  does  of  me!"  pouted 
Hilda. 

"  He  don't  think  more  of  'em,  an'  you  know  he 
don't,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  earnestly.  "  He  jest  worships 
the  ground  you  walk  on,  Hildy;  but  you  don't  want 
to  cut  up  so  'at  he'll  be  sick  of  you.  An'  I'll  tell  you 
another  thing,  you  want  to  remember  'at  you  thought 
he  was  jest  a  poor  farmer  with  nothin'  but  this  little 
place  to  his  name,  when  he  was  courtin'  you.  He 
never  let  on  to  one  of  us  'bout  his  money.  He's  done 
everythin'  he  promised  to  by  ye,  an'  a  lot  more.  You 
want  to  remember  that,  Hildy." 

"I'd  never  have  married  him  in  the  world,  if  I'd 
known,"  said  Hilda,  sulkily. 

"If  you'd  known  what — fur  the  land's  sake?"  ex 
claimed  the  old  lady  wrathfully.  "I  declare  to  good 
ness,  Hildy,  you  don't  deserve  nothin'  in  the  world 
so  much  as  a  good  hard  settin'  down  to  bring  ye  to 


A  DOSE  OF  BITTER  HERBS  321 

yer  senses.  An'  ef  you  was  five  'stead  of  twenty  you'd 
git  it  too  this  minit!  " 

"I  don't  think  it's  at  all  nice  of  you  to  talk  to  me 
that  way,"  said  Hilda,  rising  with  a  great  display  of 
matronly  dignity.  "Oh,  here's  Immanuel;  I'm  so 
glad!" 

She  kissed  her  husband  with  unwonted  warmth, 
and  his  eyes  brightened  happily  as  they  rested  for  a 
moment  on  the  charming  face.  "I'm  glad  you've 
come  to  see  this  little  wife  of  mine,  grandma,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "I  tried  to  persuade  her  to  drive  with 
me  this  glorious  afternoon,  but  she  said  '  no '  very 
decidedly.  Perhaps  she  guessed  some  welcome  visitor 
was  at  hand." 

Hilda  was  busy  with  her  embroidery  now;  she 
looked  up  to  smile  with  a  dazzling  display  of  white 
teeth  and  dimples.  "Grandma  has  been  scolding 
me,"  she  said  sweetly. 

"No,  I  have  n't,"  promptly  denied  the  old  lady.  "  I 
found  her  cryin'  and  sulkin'  when  I  came  in,"  she 
went  on,  turning  to  Immanuel,  with  the  brisk  air  of  a 
good  disciplinarian,  "and  I  jes'  giv'  her  a  piece  of  my 
mind,  that's  all." 

The  young  man  turned  a  distressed  and  inquiring 
gaze  upon  his  wife.  "Crying?"  he  said,  "why  were 
you  crying,  dear?" 

Her  lips  trembled  a  little  like  a  child's  on  the  verge 
of  sobs.  "I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it  now,"  she  said. 

"Hump!  I  guess  I'll  be  going,"  observed  Mrs.  Scott, 
rising  with  an  openly  sarcastic  sniff.  "If  you  ain't 
onhitched,  'Manuel,  I'll  ask  you  to  drive  me  home. 
I've  stayed  longer  'an  I  meant  to." 

Once  seated  comfortably  in  the  carriage  the  excel- 


322  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

lent  matron  turned  her  shrewd  eyes  upon  the  grave, 
troubled  face  at  her  side.  "  I've  known  Hildy  sence 
she  was  a  baby,"  she  began,  "an'  while  of  course  me 
an'  her  gran'pa  think  the  world  an'  all  of  the  child — as 
is  no  more'n  natural,  seein'  she's  our  only  gran'child,  I 
ain't  blinded  to  her  faults.  She's  awful  set  on  havin' 
her  own  way,  Hildy  is,  an'  it  don't  make  no  manner 
of  difference  whether  it's  a  good  way  or  not,  she  jest 
sticks  to  it  through  thick  an'  thin.  Her  pa  allers  spiled 
her  when  she  was  to  home;  an'  his  second  wife  didn't 
have  any  more  gover'ment  'an  a  tow  string.  When 
she  was  with  us  she  minded  me,  you'd  better  believe; 
but  I  didn't  have  her  constant  enough  to  make  any  im 
pression.  She's  pretty  well  spiled,  Hildy  is.  You'll 
hev  to  be  firm  with  her." 

Immanuel  drew  his  brows  together  with  a  displeased 
frown.  "I  have  no  idea  of  establishing  a  reign  of 
law  in  my  house,"  he  said  coldly.  "  My  wife  is  cer 
tainly  entitled  to  her  opinions." 

"Of  course  you  can't  see  things  as  I  do,"  retorted 
Mrs.  Scott.  "An'  I  don't  know  as  I  want  you  should. 
I  guess  I'll  hold  my  tongue  in  futur',  but  there's  plenty 
of  folks  as  ull  advise  ye  worse,  an'  her  too.  That 
Mis'  Smalley  she  saw  down  there  set  as  many  foolish 
notions  to  hatchin'  in  her  head,  as  I'd  put  eggs  under 
my  ol'  gray  hen." 

Immanuel  looked  puzzled  and  inquiring,  but  he  said 
nothing;  and  presently  set  his  grandmother-in-law 
safely  down  at  her  own  door. 

"So  he's  awful  rich,  is  he?"  soliloquized  the  old 
lady  grimly,  as  she  watched  him  drive  away.  "Well, 
money's  a  good  thing,  but  he'll  be  'bleeged  to  live  and 
larn,  I  reckon,  same  as  the  rest  of  us  hev  to."  With 


A  DOSE  OF  BITTER  HERBS  323 

which  epigrammatic  statement  she  walked  into  the 
house  with  an  energetic  step. 

Immanuel  carefully  avoided  any  reference  to  this 
conversation,  but  he  was  more  anxiously  devoted  to 
his  young  wife  than  ever.  A  new  piano  was  sent 
from  the  city,  and  because  Hilda's  musical  knowledge 
and  skill  were  of  the  slightest,  a  marvelous  device  for 
reproducing  the  great  music  of  the  centuries  accom 
panied  it.  There  were  new  books  too,  and  the  latest 
magazines.  Hilda  once  expressed  a  desire  to  ride,  and 
a  gentle  pony  took  up  his  residence  in  the  old  red 
barn.  But  the  listless  face  of  the  recipient  of  all  these 
gifts  reproached  the  giver  ceaselessly.  She  said  little; 
she  sewed  vast  quantities  of  embroidery  silk  into  end 
less  bits  of  linen  cloth. 

"Would  you  not  like  to  ask  some  visitors  to  spend 
a  month  with  us,  dear  ?  "  he  asked  her  one  day  after  he 
had  watched  the  needle  with  its  trail  of  pink  flash  in 
and  out  for  half  a  hundred  times. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  said,  without  lifting  her 
eyes.  "I  don't  see  what  we  could  do  to  entertain 
them  in  this  dull  place." 

"There  are  plenty  of  people  not  far  away,"  he  said 
hesitatingly.  "  Why  should  we  not  make  the  acquain 
tance  of  our  neighbors  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  care  to  know  the  people  here,"  she  re 
plied  chillingly.  "  But  of  course  I  must  do  what  you 
say." 

He  sighed  and  resumed  his  solitary  reading. 
"There  is  such  a  capital  bit  here,  Hilda;  shall  I  read  it 
to  you  ?"  he  said  after  a  little. 

"If  you  like," — indifferently.  But  she  did  not  once 
smile  at  the  inimitable  humor  of  Holmes.  After  read- 


324  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

ing  a  few  pages  he  laid  down  the  book  abruptly  and 
left  the  room.  The  blue  eyes  followed  him  with  a 
curious  unrelentingness.  There  was  a  silent  war  of 
wills  going  on  between  these  two,  and  Hilda  was  per 
fectly  well  aware  of  it. 

As  for  Immanuel,  he  was  not  far  from  being  entirely 
miserable.  He  went  wearily  over  the  whole  matter 
with  himself  for  the  hundredth  time.  "I  have  been 
selfish,"  he  told  himself  at  last.  "I  have  deceived  my 
self  and  wronged  her.  I  ought  not  to  have  expected 
her  to  be  happy  here  with  me  alone." 

This  singular  young  man  was  just  as  far  as  ever 
from  understanding  the  situation  from  Hilda's  point 
of  view,  as  was  evinced  by  a  letter  which  he  presently 
wrote  to  his  lawyers.  "  We  have  decided  to  come  to 
town  for  the  winter.  Look  up  for  me  a  house  of 
moderate  cost  in  one  of  the  suburban  districts,"  was 
the  substance  of  it. 

"Will  you  drive  with  me  to  the  village,  dearest," 
he  asked,  bending  over  the  small  figure  in  the  big 
chair. 

"No,  I  think  not,  it  is  too  windy  to  drive  to-day,"  she 
replied  with  a  resigned  sigh. 

He  had  intended  to  tell  her  at  once  of  his  resolve, 
but  her  manner  chilled  him.  "Very  well,"  he  said, 
in  a  tone  of  forced  cheerfulness,  and  busied  himself 
with  the  fire  till  it  crackled  merrily  up  the  chimney. 

Left  to  herself  Hilda  shed  a  few  vague  tears.  She 
wished  she  had  gone  to  the  village.  "Anything  is 
better  than  this  dreary  house!"  she  muttered,  and 
settled  down  to  a  comfortable  fit  of  sulks,  during 
which  she  held  herself  up  before  her  mental  vision 
as  a  wonderfully  patient  but  much  abused  woman. 


A  DOSE  OF  BITTER  HERBS  325 

"Perhaps  I  shall  be  sick  and  die  after  awhile,"  she 
said  aloud;  "I  guess  he  would  be  sorry  then!"  She 
even  allowed  herself  to  depict  a  lovely  snow-white 
figure,  cold  and  dead,  over  which  her  hard-hearted 
husband  was  shedding  remorseful  tears.  This  picture 
was  so  excessively  pathetic  that  Hilda  wept  over  it 
convulsively. 

Self-pity  is  the  most  ignoble  of  all  the  emotions; 
but  how  was  our  poor  Hilda  to  know  this  ?  She  pitied 
herself  and  cried  until  the  natural  reaction  set  in;  this 
led  her  up-stairs  and  into  her  prettiest  gown. 

"I  wish  somebody  would  come  now '."she  said 
aloud,  as  she  surveyed  her  reflection  in  the  mirror. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
'Rastus  Winch  Performs  His  Vow 

THE  fulfilment  of  the  wish  followed  close  upon  its 
utterance.  Hilda  had  scarce  finished  putting 
the  last  dainty  touches  to  her  toilet,  when  the  maid 
announced  a  visitor.  "An"  if  you  don't  mind,  Mis' 
Rossi,  I'll  be  goin'  to  the  farm  now  afther  more  cream. 
There  ain't  none  fur  the  tay." 

Hilda  nodded  her  assent  to  this  proposal.  "  Who  is 
down  there,  Norah  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"Just  an  old,  farmer-lookin'  man,  ma'am,"  replied 
the  girl.  "  He  axed  was  Mr.  Rossi  to  home,  an'  I  says, 
'  no,  sir.'  '  Then  I'll  see  his  woman/  he  says,  'an'  me 
business  is  keen,'  or  words  like  thim.  I  snowed  him 
to  the  settin'  room." 

Hilda  frowned.  "How  tiresome!''  she  exclaimed 
sharply,  and  swept  down  the  narrow  stairs,  entering 
the  room,  where  her  visitor  waited,  with  the  air  of  a 
duchess. 

He  was  a  tall,  stoop-shouldered  man,  with  strag 
gling  hair  and  whiskers  of  dingy  gray;  this  much 
Hilda  observed  at  a  glance.  He  had  not  removed  his 
hat,  she  further  remarked  with  a  displeased  stare.  Be 
neath  its  dusty  brim  a  pair  of  small  savage  eyes  looked 
out  with  a  curious  sparkle.  For  the  rest,  the  stranger 
was  shabbily  dressed,  and  carried  in  one  hand  a  heavy 
whip.  A  shiver  of  repulsion  passed  through  Hilda's 
slight  figure;  she  drew  back  and  laid  her  hand  upon 

326 


'RASTUS  WINCH  PERFORMS  HIS  VOW  327 

the  door.  "  You — you  asked  to  see  me,"  she  began  in 
a  low  voice.  "  Mr.  Rossi  is  not  at  home,  and  I " 

The  man  burst  into  a  short,  rasping  laugh.  "  I  ain't 
so  awful  sorry  on  that  "count,"  he  said;  "  I  kinder 
reckoned  I'd  fin'  him  gone.  You're  his  wife,  I  per- 
soom  ?". 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Rossi — yes,  certainly;  won't  you  tell  me 
your  business,  if  you  please?"  Hilda  was  not  unac 
customed  to  dealing  with  the  farming  population.  It 
occurred  to  her  that  this  singular  individual  was  per 
haps  an  embarrassed  purveyor  of  dairy  products,  or 
possibly  a  sewing-machine  agent.  After  a  second 
glance  at  the  lowering  face  of  her  visitor,  she  decided 
that  she  would  dismiss  him  without  delay. 

"  I  don't  care  to  buy  anything  to-day,  thank  you," 
she  said,  drawing  herself  up  decidedly,  "I  am  very 
much  engaged  just  now;  I  will  ask  the  maid  to  show 
you  -  She  stopped  short,  remembering  with  a 

second  disagreeable  shiver  that  she  had  permitted  the 
girl  to  leave  the  house. 

"  Wall  now,  I  guess  ye  don't  want  ter  git  red  of  me 
so  quick;  I've  waited  fur  quite  a  spell  to  see  ye,"  said 
the  man  advancing  two  or  three  steps.  "  An'  I  swar 
ye're  wuth  seein';  I  guess  ye're  quite  a  leetle  han'somer 
'an  my  wife  'Liz'beth  wuz.  No,  you  ain't  a-goin'  to 
leave  me  jest  yit;  I  ain't  got  through  with  ye,  not  by 
no  means! " 

Hilda  drew  back,  pale  with  fright,  as  the  man  with 
a  sudden  movement  interposed  his  hulking  figure  be 
tween  her  and  the  door.  "  Ye'll  do  me  the  extry  favor 
to  stan'  right  whar  ye  be,  tell  I  git  through  a  talkin'  to 
ye,  Mis'  Rossi.  My,  ain't  it  a  holy  mericle  though,  to 
think  I've  got  'Manuel's  wife  whar  he  got  mine  once! 


328  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

He  jest  killed  her,  'Manuel  did,  anj  I  ain't  the  forgittin' 
kind.  They  reckoned  they'd  got  me  all  paid  up  an' 
settled  with;  but  'Rastus  Winch  ain't  so  easy-goin'  as 
all  that.  I  swore  'at  I'd  git  even  with  that  little  skunk 
of  a  beggar  'at  took  my  wife  away  f'om  me,  an'  say! 
I'm  a-goin'  to  do  it  now!  " 

Hilda  was  almost  helpless  with  fear;  her  blue  eyes 
shone  like  stars  in  her  white  face.  "  'Rastus  Winch !  " 
she  faltered,  catching  at  a  straw  of  hope,  "  are  you 
'Rastus  Winch  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  be.  I  see  you've  heerd  of  me.  That  fine 
husband  of  yourn  'ud  be  lyin'  in  a  pauper's  grave  if  it 
hadn't  ha'  been  fur  me.  I  brung  him  up  an'  done  fur 
him,  an'  what  did  I  git  fur  it  ?  The  mean  little  rooster 
run  away,  an'  my  wife,  'Liz'beth,  she  took  to  her  bed 
an'  died  along  of  him;  that  was  the  way  of  it.  Yes — 
an'  I  ain't  never  forgot  it — not  fur  a  minit.  I  sez  to 
him  last  time  I  seen  him,  I'll  git  even  with  ye,  I 
sez." 

It  was  evident  to  the  trembling  woman  who  faced  him 
that  the  man  was  either  drunk  or  crazy.  Did  he  mean 
to  murder  her  ?  She  strove  to  quiet  the  tremor  in  her 
voice  as  she  said,  "  Won't  you — won't  you  please  sit 
down,  Mr.  Winch  ?  I've  always  wanted  to  see  you 
and  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  Mr.  Rossi." 

"You  lie!"  roared  Winch,  the  great  veins  starting 
out  upon  his  forehead.  "  Why  didn't  ye  come  an'  see 
me,  then  ?  I  heerd  'at  you  wuz  here  an'  thinks  s'l,  mebbe 
he'll  hev  the  decency  to  fetch  me  over  a  couple  of  hun 
dreds  fur  my  ol'  age.  If  he  had,  why,  I  dunno  but  I'd 
ha'  let  him  off.  But  now  I  swan  I'm  a-goin'  to  give 
you  the  tarnalest  lickin'  you  ever  had.  I  owe  him  one 
f'om  way  back,  but  I  guess  it'll  smart  'nough  if  you 


'RASTUS  WINCH  PERFORMS  HIS  VOW  329 

git  it  'stead  o'  him."  He  advanced  threateningly,  bran 
dishing  the  whip. 

Hilda  sprang  back  behind  the  shelter  of  a  table. 
"Wait!"  she  cried  breathlessly.  "Let  me  tell  you! 
He  wanted  me  to  go  and  see  you.  We  were  going— 
we  were  going  to-day — yes,  really!  I — I  have  some 
thing,  something  beautiful  for  you. — Just  see  this!" 
She  essayed  with  trembling  fingers  to  unfasten  the 
brooch  at  her  throat. 

"Ye  little,  lyin',  white-faced,  meechin'  critter  you! 
you'd  ought  to  git  yer  neck  broke!  "  snarled  the  man 
with  venemous  emphasis.  He  raised  the  whip;  it  de 
scended,  shattering  a  fragile  china  inkstand;  the  ink 
spread  over  the  dainty  appointments  of  the  table  and 
dripped  slowly  on  to  the  carpet.  Hilda  was  stirred  out 
of  her  frozen  terror  to  sudden  wrath  by  the  sight. 

"  You — you  horrid  old  man !  "  she  cried.  "Just  see 
what  you've  done  to  my  new  carpet!  " 

"  Oh,  that's  the  way  the  wind  sets  ?  "  sneered  Winch 
with  an  ugly  laugh.  "I've  got  plenty  of  time,  an'  I 
guess  afore  I  polish  you  off  I'll  tech  up  some  of  this 
'ere  prop'ty  of  'Manuel's  'at  I  see  lyin'  round  permisc'ous 
like." 

Hilda  was  sure  now  that  he  was  crazy  as  she 
watched  the  heavy  whip 'descend  again  and  again, 
smashing,  defacing  article  after  article  all  over  the 
pretty  room.  She  grew  cold  and  faint  at  the  thought 
of  that  terrible  whip  crashing  down  upon  her  head 
and  shoulders.  The  thought  suggested  a  fresh  re 
prieve.  "You've  spoiled  everything  in  this  room," 
she  cried;  "but  don't  you  dare  to  touch  my  china 
dishes!  " 

The  destroyer  had  paused  to  stare  about  him  with 


330  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

vacant  eyes.  "Your  chiny  dishes!"  he  yelled.  "I 
don't  ask  no  better  fun!  " 

Hilda  watched  his  shambling  figure  as  he  lounged 
slowly  across  the  room.  "Chiny  dishes,"  he  was 
muttering.  "I'll  fix  'em!"  He  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh  as  he  flung  open  a  door  into  the  dining-room, 
where  a  sideboard  sparkling  with  glass  and  silver  met 
his  gaze.  "You  stan'  right  whar  you  be  till  I  git 
through  out  here,"  he  growled,  turning  to  Hilda,  who 
still  cowered  behind  the  table.  "I'll  ten'  to  your  case 
pretty  quick  now!  "  Then  the  lust  of  destruction  laid 
hold  on  him. 

Amid  the  crash  of  glass  and  china  and  the  splinter 
ing  shock  of  breaking  furniture  she  gained  the  stair 
and  fled  unperceived  to  her  own  room,  where  she 
locked  herself  in,  pulling  a  heavy  bureau  across  the 
door  by  way  of  further  defense.  "  What  shall  I  do!  " 
she  wailed.  "Oh,  Immanuel — Immanuel!" 

The  faint  rattle  of  wheels  caught  her  ears  as  she 
stood  looking  distractedly  about  her.  After  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation  she  crept  out  of  the  open  window 
and  stood  erect  on  the  roof  of  the  veranda. 

History  is  said  to  repeat  itself  now  and  again.  As 
Hilda  strained  eyes  and  ears  for  a  recurrence  of  the 
sound  a  long,  narrow  wagon  hove  into  view  from 
behind  a  clump  of  trees.  The  driver  of  the  slow- 
stepping  white  horse  sat  stiffly  erect  in  the  driver's 
place;  occasionally  he  cast  a  guarded  glance  at  the 
shrouded  shape  which  constituted  his  load. 

"Won't  you  stop,  please!"  cried  the  girl,  waving  a 
handkerchief  scarce  whiter  than  her  face,  as  the  wagon 
crawled  slowly  past  the  gate.  She  repeated  her  cry 
again  and  again  with  shrill  emphasis;  to  her  immense 


'RASTUS  WINCH  PERFORMS  HIS  VOW  331 

relief  the  man  at  length  lifted  his  head,  and  with  a 
startled  exclamation  pulled  up  his  horse. 

Hilda  watched  him  eagerly  as  he  walked  up  the 
graveled  path.  "Excuse  me,  miss,"  he  said,  staring 
up  at  the  young  woman ;  "did  you  call  me ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda,  breathlessly.  "I  am  all  alone, 
and  there  is  a  man  down  there  spoiling  all  my  things. 
I  want  you  to  make  him  go  away." 

"  Why — why — why !  What  did  I  understan'  you  to 
say  ?  A  man  spoilin'  your  things — what  man  ?" 

"  He  says  his  name  is  Winch,"  said  Hilda.  "  He  is 
drunk  or  crazy,  I  know.  Can't  you  make  him  go 
away  ?" 

"Very  singular  case,  I'm  sure,"  returned  the  man, 
lifting  his  eyebrows.  "  I  am  the  coroner  of  this  'ere 
deestric' — name  Dundor — also  undertaker.  1  was  just 
engaged  in  takin'  an  extry  fine,  a-number-one  casket 
over  to  Turner's  Crossroads.  Winch,  you  say  ?  Not 
'Rastus  Winch  of  the  Corners,  I  trust.  What  d'  I 
understan'  you  to  say  your  name  was  ?" 

"My  name  is  Rossi,"  said  Hilda.  " Oh,  never  mind 
anything  else  you  have  to  do;  my  husband  can  pay 
you.  Don't  leave  me  alone — please!" 

Mr.  Dundor  shook  his  head  and  pursed  up  his  lips 
tentatively.  "  Rossi,  yes — yes!  'Manuel  Rossi,  to  be 
sure!  I  was  told  he  had  come  back  to  these  parts  to 
reside.  I  didn't  have  the  pleasure  of  buryin'  his  late 
uncle;  but  I  ain't  one  of  the  kind  to  harbor  resentment. 
I  don't  know  as  you're  aware  that  in  his  young  days 
your  husban'  was,  so  to  speak,  the  prop'ty  of  'Rastus 
Winch.  He  never  got  over  partin'  with  him,  'Rastus 
didn't.  I  buried  his  wife  for  him — a  savin',  industrious, 
hard-workin'  woman.  'Rastus  always  kind  of  charged 


332  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

her  up  to  'Manuel,  so  to  speak.  After  her  decease  he 
took  to  the  inebriatin'  cup,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  Hard 
cider,  you  know.  They  tell  me  he  put  in  fourteen 
barrels  last  fall.  Hard  cider  ain't  good  for  the  temper 

at  any  time,  and  for  a  singular  man  like  'Rastus " 

He  advanced  on  tiptoe  to  the  window  and  cautiously 
peeped  in. 

"Can  you  see  him  ?"  inquired  Hilda,  anxiously. 

"Why,  yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dundor,  backing  away 
with  an  air  of  apprehension.  "I  did  see  him;  he 
appears  to  be  lookin'  for  something — or  somebody. 
It  is  our  b'reaved  frien',  'Rastus  Winch,  I  regret  to  say, 
an'  I  should  hazard  the  opinion  that  he  is  under  the 
infloounce  of  the  inebriatin'  cup.  Sad  case — very! 
Perhaps  if  you  was  to  come  down,  Mrs.  Rossi,  you 
might  reason  with  him,  an'  persuade  him  to " 

"No,  indeed!  I'll  never  come  down  while  he's 
there!  You  must  make  him  go  away !  " 

Mr.  Dundor  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  beast,  which 
stood  drooping  its  lean  head  dispiritedly  toward  the 
muddy  road.  "I  guess  it  would  'bout  square  the 
account,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  With  that  he 
started  toward  the  gate. 

"Don't  leave  me!"  pleaded  Hilda  from  above. 
"I'm  afraid  he's  coming  up — oh!  "  she  finished  with  a 
little  shriek  at  the  sound  of  a  heavy  crash  below. 

"I'll  git  him  out  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Dundor,  re 
assuringly.  "I'm  goin'  to  try  a  little  strategy  on 
'Rastus.  You'll  see!" 

A  brown  horse  attached  to  a  light  wagon  stood 
near  the  fence,  daintily  nibbling  the  lilac  bushes  with 
long  outstretched  neck.  Mr.  Dundor  fussily  guided 
this  animal  into  the  road,  then  giving  him  a  slash  with 


'RASTUS  WINCH  PERFORMS  HIS  VOW  333 

his  whip,  which  sent  him  shambling  down  the  hill, 
he  returned  to  the  house,  his  flabby  face  purple  with 
the  exertion.  "'Rastus,"  he  called,  pounding  lustily 
on  the  broken  window  sash  with  his  whip  handle, 
"I  say,  'Rastus!  Guess  you'd  better  come  out  an' 
look  arter  your  prop'ty.  I  see  your  hoss  an'  wagon 
is  runnin'  away  toward  the  Corners!  " 

A  big  towsled  head  appeared  in  answer  to  this 
summons,  and  later  Winch  hurled  himself  from  the 
wide-open  door.  He  stopped  an  instant  to  stare  after 
the  rattling  vehicle — for  the  horse  had  gathered  in  the 
lust  of  freedom  as  he  went,  and  was  running  as  fast 
as  his  ancient  legs  would  carry  him.  Swept  along  by 
the  suddenly  diverted  torrent  of  his  wrath,  the  old  man 
set  off  at  a  brisk  pace  after  the  runaway,  shouting, 
"Whoa,  thar,  you  'tarnal  critter,  whoa!" 

Mr.  Dundor  had  climbed  into  his  own  vehicle  by  this 
time.  He  turned  his  solemn  eyes  upward  to  where 
Hilda  still  crouched  upon  the  veranda  roof. 

"  He  won't  come  back,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  satis 
faction;  "  he'll  be  too  busy  a-lickin'  of  his  hoss  when 
he  ketches  him!"  As  he  drove  away,  he  glanced 
guardedly  at  the  shrouded  shape  behind.  "  Accounts 
is  squared  betwixt  her  an'  me,"  he  muttered;  "an  old 
debt,  but  well  paid;  b'sides  she  didn't  fin'  no  fault — 
roomy  an'  stylish." 

The  languid  current  of  his  thoughts  was  broken  by 
the  approach  of  a  phaeton  driven  at  a  brisk  pace  by  a 
handsome  young  man  whose  dark  eyes  rested  upon 
him  with  a  glimmer  of  recognition. 

"How  de  do,  Mr.  Rossi,"  shouted  Dundor,  pulling 
up  his  willing  animal.  "Say!  I  guess  you're  wanted 
to  home!  I  jest  succeeded  in  gettin'  our  friend  'Rastus 


334  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Winch  out  o'  your  residence  where  he  was  cuttin'  a 
pretty  broad  swath  a-smashin'  furnitur'  an'  dishes. 
Your  wife  hollered  to  me  to  come  in  an'  help.  She 
was  scared  'mos'  to  death,  I  guess.'' 

The  bronzed  face  of  the  listener  had  blanched  to  a 
curious  dusky  pallor  during  these  utterances.  He 
touched  his  horse  sharply  with  the  whip  and  plunged 
ahead  without  a  word  of  acknowledgment  or  thanks. 

"Say,  I  like  that!"  exclaimed  the  undertaker.  "I 
s'pose  I  could  send  in  a  little  bill  fur  perfessional — I 
mean  for  services;  but  I  won't.  We'll  call  it  square 
betwixt  his  ma  an'  me." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
Hilda  Wins 

THERE  was  no  need  of  perfunctory  tears  on  this 
occasion — if  Hilda  had  ever  indulged  in  such! 
The  limpid  drops  gushed  in  unrestrained  torrents  from 
the  sweet  blue  eyes,  drenching  the  velvety  cheeks, 
which  now  resembled  drowned  white  roses.  The 
wrecked  house  told  its  own  story,  and  the  disjointed 
little  sentences  which  fell  from  Hilda's  trembling  lips 
told  the  rest. 

Immanuel  said  little,  but  he  wrapped  the  slight  figure 
close  in  his  arms,  his  heart  beating  loud,  passionate 
throbs  in  the  exquisite  little  ear  which  lay  against  it. 

"I  can't — can't  bear  to — to  stay  here  any  longer!" 
she  sobbed.  "  I — I  could  never  be — happy  here  again! 
Mayn't — we  go  away — please  ?  " 

He  stooped  to  kiss  the  white  forehead  under  its  fluff 
of  yellow  hair.  "Will  you  forgive  me,  Hilda?"  he 
begged.  "Can  you  forgive  me?"  His  voice  was 
broken  with  something  like  a  sob.  The  vision  of  the 
fair  shoulders  and  dimpled  arms  of  his  young  wife 
scored  with  the  red  scars  of  that  merciless  whip  filled 
him  with  a  mixture  of  pain  and  fury. 

Hilda  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  quivering  face  with  a 
flash  of  comprehension.  "  He  might  have  killed  me!  " 
she  murmured.  "You  might  have  found  me  lying 
dead — right  there!"  She  pointed  dramatically  to  the 

335 


336  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

ruins  of  the  pretty  room  and  buried  her  face  against 
the  loud-beating  heart. 

"Oh,  Hilda!"  he  groaned.  "I  ought  not  to  have 
left  you  here!  We  ought  not  to  have  stayed.  You 
never  liked  it.  You  poor,  poor  girl — what  a  selfish 
brute  1  have  been!  And  to  think  what  might  have 
happened!  1—  He  stopped  short  and  two  big 

hot  tears  splashed  on  her  white  hand. 

There  is  something  terrible  in  the  hard-wrung  tears 
of  a  strong  man.  Hilda  was  silent  for  a  moment  with 
something  like  awe.  Then  the  clamorous  self  within 
urged  that  this  was  the  long-sought  opportunity  for 
conquest.  "  You  will  take  me  away,  dear  ?"  she  said 
plaintively,  yielding  her  pliant  body  to  his  remorseful 
embraces.  "You  will  not  ask  me  to  stay  here.  I 
could  not  forget  that — that  terrible  face!  " 

"Anywhere  that  you  like,  Hilda!  "  he  cried,  reckless 
of  the  future.  "  I  have  made  a  foolish  blunder  which 
might  have  had  terrible  consequences.  You  shall 
choose  our  home,  dear." 

She  looked  at  him  intently,  light  and  color  dawning 
in  eyes  and  cheeks.  "Do  you  really  mean  it?"  she 
murmured. 

He  hesitated  for  an  instant.  "You  will  remember 
my  life-work,  Hilda,"  he  said  almost  beseechingly. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  charming  little 
pout.  "You  ought  to  be  where  the  work  is,"  she 
said  boldly.  "How  do  you  know  whether  the  men 
you  hire  are  doing  as  you  would  like  ?  We  will  go  to 
New  York." 

A  man  is  in  a  hard  case  when  his  wife — to  whom 
he  has  vowed  lifelong  love  and  devotion — and  his 
most  cherished  ideal  pull  him  in  opposite  directions. 


HILDA  WINS  337 

The  problem  has  been  met  and  solved  in  as  many 
ways  as  there  are  men  to  face  it.  In  the  conversation 
that  followed  Immanuel  Rossi  once  more  attempted  to 
draw  the  woman  of  his  choice  into  comprehension  of, 
and  sympathy  with  his  plans.  "It  is  true,"  he  said, 
"that  if  we  choose  to  spend  this  money  which  has 
come  to  me  upon  ourselves  we  may  live  in  a  palace — 
in  a  dozen  palaces;  we  may  shine  with  jewels,  and 
devour  the  living  of  a  thousand  of  our  fellow-beings." 

"  How  disagreeably  you  put  it,"  she  cried.  "  If  we 
use  our  own  as  we  like,  how  do  we  wrong  any  one 
else  ?  " 

"  But,  dearest,"  he  urged,  "  I  have  told  you  already 
that  this  money  has  been  taken  from  the  poor  in  a 
score  of  ways — all  of  them  dishonest  as  I  count 
honesty,  and  I  must  give  it  back.  Once  for  all,  Hilda, 
I  will  tell  you  that  I  believe  no  man  has  a  right  to 
snatch  for  himself  what  belongs  to  his  brothers. 
There  ought  to  be  no  millionaires  and  no  paupers  in 
this  age  of  the  world's  enlightenment." 

Fine  scorn  crept  into  the  blue  eyes.  "  You  are  no 
better  than  an  anarchist  then! "  she  said,  her  lips  curl 
ing  in  a  malicious  little  smile.  "  Shall  we  march,  then, 
and  carry  a  red  flag,  and  let  our  hair  grow  long?" 
Then  reading  her  blunder  in  his  amazed  eyes,  she 
threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  burst  into  fresh 
sobs.  "I  hardly  know  what  I  am  saying,"  she  fal 
tered,  "I  am  not — able  to  talk  any  more." 

Whereat  he  inwardly  cursed  himself  for  a  selfish 
brute,  and  devoted  himself  afresh  to  the  task  of  sooth 
ing  her. 

Of  course  they  went  to  New  York,  where  in  a  long 
conversation  with  her  new  friend  and  adviser,  Mrs. 


338  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Smalley,  Hilda  disclosed  a  momentous  secret,  which 
she  had  not  as  yet  seen  fit  to  mention  to  her  husband. 

"My  dear!"  cried  Mrs.  Smalley  with  uplifted  hands 
and  round  eyes  of  sympathy.  "  And  to  think  of  your 
being  exposed  to  that  frightful  ordeal!  Oh,  I  do  hope 
that  there  will  be  no  permanent  bad  effects  from  it — 
that  you  will " 

"  I  shan't  care  a  bit  about  it,"  interrupted  Hilda  com 
fortably;  "If  I  can  live  in  that  lovely  house  and  have 
what  I  want." 

"Well,  if  you  don't  have  your  way  now,  it  will  be 
a  perfect  shame;  and  with  Mr.  Rossi's  income!  Just 
wait,  my  dear,  I'll  manage  it.  You  must  see  my  phy 
sician  at  once! " 

That  eminent  medical  man  (after  a  preliminary  con 
versation  with  Mrs.  Smalley)  delivered  himself  of  the 
following  weighty  opinion  in  a  conference  with  the 
young  husband.  "Your  wife,  my  dear  Mr.  Rossi,  is 
suffering  from  the  deplorable  effects  of  the  terrible 
shock  to  her  nervous  system  which  she  recently  ex 
perienced.  And  while  I  find  her  to  be  possessed  of  an 
admirable  organism — really  admirable,  I  should  advise 
that  under  the  circumstances  you  do  not  thwart  her  in 
any  of  the  little  desires  and  wishes  which  she  may  ex 
press,  and  which  are  very  natural  to  ladies  in  her — ah 
—condition." 

When  the  young  man  betrayed  by  his  surprised 
questions  his  ignorance  of  the  situation,  the  medical 
man  proceeded  to  make  matters  plain  to  him,  repeat 
ing  with  emphasis  his  advice  as  to  the  necessity  of 
yielding  "any  little  prejudices"  to  the  wishes  of  the 
patient.  "Arguments  or  questions  pertaining  to  fi 
nance  had  best  be  avoided  altogether  for  awhile," 


HILDA  WINS  339 

smiled  the  man  of  science.  "  We  must  yield  our  little 
preferences  to  the  ladies  at  such  times  when  it  is  pos 
sible,  for  the  benefit  of  future  generations  if  for  noth 
ing  more." 

The  astute  Mrs.  Smalley  in  a  flutter  of  maternal 
solicitude  skilfully  deepened  the  impression.  "You 
can't  be  hard-hearted  enough  to  deny  the  dear  child 
anything  now!"  she  said,  wiping  her  eyes  with  an 
elaborately  embroidered  handkerchief.  "It  might  re 
sult  in  her  death,  poor  dear!  " 

Immanuel  was  stupefied;  he  gazed  mechanically  at 
the  motions  of  Mrs.  Smalley's  large  white  hands, 
which  glittered  with  a  plenitude  of  precious 
stones. 

"She  is  just  the  sweetest,  most  exquisitely  organized 
creature  in  the  world,"  cooed  that  excellent  matron. 
"It  is  so  hard  for  a  man  to  understand  a  woman;  they 
are  so  differently  constituted.  Dear  Hilda — I  may  call 
her  Hilda,  may  I  not  ? — has  set  her  sweet  heart  on 
living  in  the  Vanderdecken  house;  such  an  elegant 
place,  and  not  far  from  us.  You  really  must  not 
say  no." 

Young  Rossi  said  nothing  at  all  for  the  space  of  five 
minutes.  His  mind  was  working  confusedly  on  the 
problem  which  faced  him.  A  vision  of  wan  young 
mothers  in  stifling  tenement  houses,  of  puny  babes 
fighting  for  life  in  the  fetid  air  of  courts  and  alleys  far 
removed  from  the  stately  Vanderdecken  mansion  rose 
before  him.  He  spoke  now,  very  quietly,  but  with  a 
tremor  in  his  voice  which  did  not  escape  the  vigilant 
Mrs.  Smalley.  "I  love  my  wife,"  he  said.  And  after 
a  pause  he  repeated  the  words  in  a  firmer  voice.  "  I 
love  my  wife;  but  I  think  she  can  be  comfortable  and 


340  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

safe — yes,  and  happy,  in  a  modest  house  such  as  I  can 
afford." 

"Afford!"  almost  screamed  Mrs.  Smalley,  with  a 
hysterical  laugh. 

"Yes,  afford,"  repeated  Immanuel  Rossi.  "Under 
stand  me,  if  you  please;  I  know  I  could  buy  the 
Vanderdecken  house  with  the  income  of  a  single 
month.  But  I  cannot  afford  to  feast  in  a  palace  while 
thousands  of  my  brothers  are  starving  in  foul  dens  not 
fit  for  a  decent  animal." 

"  And  you  will  allow  your  hobby  to  ride  Juggernaut- 
like  over  the  bodies  of  your  wife  and  child?"  de 
manded  Mrs.  Smalley,  in  her  most  impressive  forensic 
manner.  "Do  I  understand  that  you  refuse  to  grant 
the  innocent  desire  of  one  whom  you  have  vowed  to 
love  and  cherish  above  all  others  ?  " 

It  is  not  strange  perhaps  that  the  man  arose  at  this 
juncture  and  abruptly  left  the  lady  who  had  spoken 
these  trenchant  words.  Mrs.  Smalley  did  not  seem  at 
all  offended  by  the  circumstance.  She  merely  smiled 
and  nodded  knowingly  to  herself.  "He'll  come  to 
time!  "  she  said  aloud. 

By  what  adroit  combination  of  tears  and  swoons 
and  sweet  sad  glances  and  cold  silences  and  cooing 
pleadings  Hilda  made  good  this  idiomatic  statement  is 
not  recorded.  But  it  is  sufficiently  well  known,  being 
indeed  a  matter  of  legal  documents  and  civic  records, 
that  on  a  certain  day  of  November,  Immanuel  Rossi 
became  owner  of  the  long  untenanted  palace  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  built  by  one  Goelet  de  Peyster  Vanderdecken, 
who  had  immediately  thereafter  blown  out  his  brains 
on  board  his  yacht,  for  reasons  mentioned  in  select 
circles  with  lowered  eyelids. 


HILDA  WINS  341 

A  triumph  of  modern  architectural  art  was  the 
Rossi  mansion,  and  when  its  young  mistress  (in 
her  own  carriage,  drawn  by  her  own  horses,  presided 
over  by  two  solemn-faced  men  in  claret-colored  liv 
eries)  drew  up  before  its  portal  on  a  certain  bleak 
evening  in  early  December,  her  delicate  face  glowed 
bright  as  the  costly  flowers  that  greeted  her  from  every 
nook  and  corner  of  the  stately,  luxurious  rooms.  "Oh, 
Immanuel,"  she  sighed,  "  how  good  you  are!  " 

The  young  man  at  her  side,  who  had  somehow 
grown  strangely  old  and  sad  of  face  in  the  past  weeks, 
smiled  down  at  her  without  replying.  Indeed  a  row 
of  decorous  servants,  headed  by  a  stately  individual 
who  was  introduced  to  the  future  mistress  as  Mrs. 
Brown,  the  housekeeper,  awaited,  English  fashion,  the 
inspection  of  the  violet  eyes. 

It  was  amazing  to  witness  the  composure  and  savoir 
faire  of  the  country-bred  girl  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
magnificence.  If  not  to  the  manner  born  she  was 
certainly  to  the  manner  destined,  as  Mrs.  Smalley 
averred,  in  a  conversation  with  one  of  the  grande 
dames  of  the  second  rank,  with  whom  she  chanced  to 
be  intimate. 

That  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  compre 
hending  smile.  "We  shall  watch  your  career  with 
interest,"  she  said  sweetly.  "Of  course  you -will  do 
your  prettiest  to  help  the  little  lady  up  the  social 
ladder,  and  follow  hard  after  in  the  role  of  cicerone." 

"My  interest  in  Mrs.  Rossi  is  that  of  a  mother  for 
her  daughter,"  Mrs.  Smalley  had  replied  with  hauteur. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
Apples  of  Sodom 

THE  descent  into  Avernus — if  such  it  could  be 
termed — was  rapid  and  amazingly  easy  after 
this.  Hilda's  desires  grew  like  mushrooms  of  an 
August  night.  As  Mrs.  Smalley,  the  presiding  genius 
of  this  particular  phase  of  young  Mrs.  Rossi's  career, 
would  have  put  it,  "The  dear  child  developed  aston 
ishingly  fast." 

She  acquired  in  the  shortest  possible  space  of  time  a 
knowledge  of  all  the  appurtenances  of  a  woman  of 
fashion.  Being  clever  enough  not  to  trust  to  her  own 
taste,  she  soon  called  to  her  assistance  a  swarm  of  ob 
sequious  modistes  and  milliners  who  vied  with  one 
another  in  the  pleasing  task  of  assisting  the  beautiful 
young  wife  of  the  eccentric  Mr.  Rossi  in  disposing  of 
some  of  his  superfluous  dollars. 

After  the  birth  of  his  son  Immanuel  determined  upon 
a  last  effort  to  turn  the  strong  current  of  that  life  which 
was  to  have  flowed  softly  with  his  own.  He  sat  one 
evening  at  twilight  in  his  wife's  room  where  the  two 
had  been  looking  at  the  wonderful  bit  of  rose-colored 
humanity  which  slumbered  peacefully  in  its  nest  of 
lace  and  flannel.  "I  should  like  to  call  him  Moses 
Armitage,"  said  the  young  father,  venturing  to  touch 
with  a  cautious  forefinger  one  of  the  tiny  pink  fists 
that  were  thrown  up  on  either  side  of  the  downy 

head. 

342 


APPLES  OF  SODOM  343 

Hilda  called  her  husband's  attention  to  this  attitude, 
which  she  assured  him  was  the  sign  of  a  very  strong 
child.  She  had  accumulated  marvelous  stores  of  ma 
ternal  knowledge,  thought  Immanuel,  gazing  fondly 
at  her  beautiful  face  as  she  bent  over  the  sleeping  child. 
"  Moses  Armitage,"  she  repeated  thoughtfully.  "  Moses 
isn't  a  pretty  name ;  but  Armitage  Rossi  is  really  elegant. 
I  don't  mind  if  we  name  him  Moses  Armitage,  if  he  is 
never  called  Moses.  When  he  is  grown  he  can  write 
it  M.  Armitage  Rossi.  That  sounds  quite  d  la  mode, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Hilda,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  hers,  "  are  we 
going  to  put  our  whole  lives  into  the  effort  to  be  d  la 
mode?  Isn't  there  something  better  than  that  for  us 
and  for  him  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  coldly.  "  I  do  hope,"  she  said, 
"that  you  aren't  going  to  talk  to  me  about  poor  people 
and  slums  and  all  that;  I'm  not  strong  enough  to  bear 
it." 

He  opened  his  lips  to  reply;  then  sighed  and  glanced 
once  more  at  the  sleeping  baby.  "  We  must  get  the 
young  man  into  the  country  air  as  soon  as  you  are 
strong  enough  to  travel,  Hilda,"  he  said  gently.  "A 
quiet  place  will  be  best,  will  it  not  ?  " 

"I've  been  tiresomely  quiet  all  winter,"  she  pouted. 
"  1  don't  want  to  go  back  to  that  frightful  little  house 
— if  that  is  what  you  mean.  I  just  could  not  live 
there." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  ask  it,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"But,  oh  Hilda,  it  was  only  last  summer  that  you 
were  willing  to  live  always  in  the  little  house  with  me 
— and  I  a  poor  farmer  with  only  my  two  hands  to 
work  for  you." 


344  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Her  eyes  sparkled  with  vexation.  "I  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing!  "  she  exclaimed. 

"But  you  married  me,"  he  said  haltingly.  Then  he 
stopped  short  and  looked  fixedly  at  the  beautiful 
flushed  face.  "Did  you — know  ? " 

Hilda  was  frightened;  her  heart  beat  uncomfortably 
fast  under  the  searching  gaze  of  the  sombre  eyes. 
"  How  could  I  have  known  ?"  she  cried  breathlessly. 
"But  you — deceived  me.  You  ought  to  have  told  me 
everything! " 

It  had  not  before  occurred  to  him  that  in  concealing 
his  wealth  from  Hilda,  he  had  in  any  way  wronged  her; 
it  had  seemed  so  sweetly  justifiable  under  the  circum 
stances.  He  looked  at  her  in  dismay  the  while  a  mock 
ing  memory  of  past  dreams  flitted  across  his  mind. 
After  a  time  he  answered,  clumsily  enough,  "  I  wanted 
you  to  love  me,  not  my  money." 

"  You  were  sufficiently  just  to  yourself,"  she  flashed 
back;  "but  you  evidently  had  a  poor  opinion  of  me 
and  of  women  in  general,  that  the  idea  should  have 
occurred  to  you." 

He  felt  the  justice  of  her  words  sufficiently  to  pre 
serve  an  uncomfortable  silence. 

"If  you  had  really  been  the  poor  farmer  you  pre 
tended  to  be,"  she  went  on  triumphantly,  "  of  course 
I  should  have  done  my  duty  under  those  circumstances. 
But  now  I  feel  that  I  have  some  rights  as  well  as  those 
wretched  tenement  people." 

His  face  darkened.  "  We  will  not  talk  of  them," 
he  said.  "We  were  mistaken  in  each  other,  that  is 
all." 

He  rose  as  if  to  leave  the  room,  but  Hilda  sprang 
after  him  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  For  the 


APPLES  OF  SODOM  345 

moment— as  he  seemed  to  be  slipping  away  from  her 
— she  was  sure  that  she  loved  him  very  dearly. 
"  Immanuel,"  she  said  pleadingly,  "don't  be  angry 
with  me! " 

Of  course,  he  melted  in  a  moment  before  the  wist 
ful  sweetness  of  the  violet  eyes.  After  all  she  was 
more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  he  told  himself;  be 
sides  all  that,  she  was  his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his 
son.  Before  he  left  the  room,  he  had  promised  to  buy 
a  cottage  in  Newport,  which,  the  invaluable  Mrs. 
Smalley  had  assured  Hilda,  was  "  the  very  thing." 

The  next  morning  he  made  good  his  promise,  and 
also  began  an  extensive  purchase  of  certain  vile  tene 
ment  houses  on  the  north  side  of  the  city,  paying  an 
exorbitant  price  for  them  with  a  certain  grim  pleasure. 
"  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  he  said  to  himself.  But  he  no 
longer  visited  his  tenants.  The  miseries  of  the  poor 
cut  him  like  a  knife  in  these  days. 

As  the  months  passed  he  became  more  unhappy 
than  he  chose  to  confess  to  himself.  The  gay  com 
pany  which  Hilda  soon  gathered  about  her  in  the 
showy  Newport  villa  found  their  host  quite  "impos 
sible."  He  found  them  equally  so.  Returning  one 
day  from  a  lonely  ramble  in  the  country  where  he  had 
endeavored  to  clear  his  mental  skies  with  but  ill  suc 
cess,  he  found  his  wife  surrounded  by  a  group  of 
fashionably  dressed  young  men,  who  were  making 
themselves  very  much  at  home  on  his  veranda. 
Hilda's  cheeks  were  uncomfortably  flushed,  and  she 
was  replying  somewhat  shrilly  to  the  would-be  witty 
remarks  which  the  young  gentlemen  bandied  back  and 
forth. 

To  his  surprise  he  beheld  his  quondam  friend,  Rob- 


346  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

ert  Livingstone,  lolling  in  a  deep  chair  and  apparently 
overcome  by  somnolence.  The  others  rallied  him  on 
his  condition.  "Look  at  Bob!  he's  calmly  taking  a 
nap!  Oh,  Bobby,  you  sad  dog,  to  go  to  sleep  when 
Mrs.  Rossi  is  entertaining  us.  She  won't  forgive  you 
in  a  hurry,  will  you,  Mrs.  Rossi  ?" 

Hilda's  color  brightened.  "I  guess  Mr.  Livingstone 
is  sleepy,"  she  said  coquettishly.  "I'm  sure  I'm  not 
offended!  Come  and  have  some  claret-cup,  Mr.  Liv 
ingstone,  do! " 

The  look  with  which  the  young  man  eyed  his  host 
ess,  and  his  low  bow  over  the  white  hand  which  pre 
sented  the  cup,  roused  a  sleeping  devil  in  Immanuel's 
bosom.  He  walked  up  the  steps  slowly,  allowing  his 
disagreeable  surprise  to  become  evident  in  the  glance 
which  rested  upon  the  group. 

Hilda  looking  flushed  and  annoyed  haltingly  accom 
plished  several  introductions.  "  Mr.  Livingstone  you 
know  already,"  she  concluded  with  an  uncertain  smile 
at  her  husband. 

"  Lord,  yes;  Rossi  and  I  were  intimate  in  our  day," 
said  Livingstone,  coolly.  "  Haven't  seen  much  of  you 
lately,  old  man." 

"I  hope  that  you  will  renew  your  friendship  now 
that  we  are  down  here  for  the  summer,"  put  in  Hilda, 
a  little  too  eagerly;  "I  saw  your  mother  and  sister 
drive  past  this  morning,"  she  added  irrelevantly. 

Immanuel  flashed  a  displeased  look  at  his  wife  as  he 
murmured  some  commonplace  in  reply  to  Livingstone's 
words.  The  other  young  men  who  had  been  ex 
changing  amused  glances  now  arose  and  made  their 
adieux.  "Disagreeable  duffer,"  said  one,  a  little  too 
audibly,  as  they  walked  away. 


APPLES  OF  SODOM  347 

Hilda  bit  her  lip  and  tapped  her  foot  nervously,  then 
with  what  she  considered  great  savoir  faire,  she 
turned  smilingly  to  Livingstone,  who  leaned  back 
lazily  in  his  chair  eying  the  scene  with  an  air  of  cyni 
cal  enjoyment.  "I  do  hope,"  she  said  prettily,  "that 
I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  meeting  your  sister  soon. 
She  has  such  a  sweet  face." 

"Oh,  thanks,"  drawled  Livingstone,  "I'm  much 
obliged,  I'm  sure.  She  is  a  deucedly  pretty  girl,  if  I 
do  say  so." 

"And  you'll  bring  her  to  see  me  some  day?"  per 
sisted  Hilda. 

"Oh,  aw — I  should  be  delighted,  don't  you  know," 
stammered  Livingstone,  glancing  guardedly  at  the 
stern  dark  profile  of  Immanuel;  "but  sis'  is  really 
buried  in  engagements,  you  know,  and  I  can't  prom 
ise."  He  arose  as  he  spoke  and  took  his  leave  with 
profuse  apologies  for  his  unceremonious  use  of  "that 
awfully  comfortable  chair." 

An  unpleasant  silence  followed  his  departure.  Hilda 
sulked  openly,  and  Immanuel  stared  at  the  drifting 
sails  on  the  far  blue  rim  of  ocean  with  an  impassive 
face. 

"I  wish  you'd  be  more  social,  Immanuel,"  said  the 
lady  at  length,  speaking  with  an  obvious  effort.  "  You 
might  have  asked  Mr.  Livingstone  to  dine  with  us. 
He  belongs  to  one  of  the  very  best  families,"  she 
added,  quoting  with  conscious  pride  from  Mrs.  Smal- 
ley's  almanac. 

He  turned  his  eyes  upon  her  with  a  mixture  of  pity 
and  displeasure. 

"If  you  would  call  on  them,"  she  went  on  impa 
tiently,  "  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Livingstone  and  her  daughter 


348  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

would  come  to  see  me.  I  met  them  yesterday  on  the 
ocean  drive;  and  you  ought  to  have  seen  them  look  at 
me.  Won't  you  go  to-day,  dear,  just  to  please  me?" 

He  had  done  many  things  to  please  her,  she  knew, 
so  she  was  not  prepared  for  the  decided  refusal  to  her 
request  which  he  worded  in  no  uncertain  terms.  Poor 
Hilda,  she  was  already  finding  her  gilded  apples  bitter 
to  the  taste.  Her  coachman,  her  liveries,  her  gowns, 
her  jewels  had  elicited  nothing  but  an  occasional  brief 
stare  from  the  haughty  dames  whom  she  longed  to 
know.  She  was  ready  to  cry  with  vexation  as  she 
glanced  sidewise  at  the  moody  face  of  her  husband. 

He  roused  himself  to  say  coldly,  "When  did  you 
make  the  acquaintance  of  all  those  men,  Hilda?" 

"Why,  I  knew  Mr.  Renton  in  New  York;  I  met 
him  at  Mrs.  Smalley's;  he  brought  the  others.  Mr. 
Livingstone  I've  known  ever  so  long.  I  think  he  is 
just  as  nice  as  he  can  be.  He  isn't  a  bit  gloomy  and 
dismal;  and  he  likes  me."  She  added  the  last  words 
with  a  defiant  lifting  of  her  small  head. 

He  wisely  changed  the  subject.  "Where  is  Armi- 
tage,  Hilda?  I  haven't  seen  him  to-day." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  his  wife  replied  carelessly. 
"  I  suppose  he  is  with  his  nurse  somewhere.  I  don't 
want  him  now,  anyway;  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Won't  you  please  tell  me  how  we  are  going  to  get  ac 
quainted  with  these  people  ?  It  isn't  a  bit  of  use  to 
have  this  house  and  all  our  pretty  things  if  we  can't 
have  the  friends  we  want.  You  used  to  know  them, 
Mrs.  Smalley  says  so.  Don't  you  want  me  to  have  as 
good  a  time  as  you  did?" 

He  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "I  gave  up  so 
ciety,  Hilda,  before  I  knew  you,"  he  said  at  last. 


APPLES  OF  SODOM  349 

"Gave  it  up!"  she  repeated.  "But  how  can  you 
give  up  people  you  know  ?  What  did  you  give  them 
up  for?  You  might  have  known—  She  stopped 
short  with  a  vivid  blush.  "  Was  that  when  you  came 
up  to  the  farm  ?"  she  went  on  in  a  lower  tone. 

He  nodded  assent. 

"But  tell  me,  "why  did  you  come  to  the  farm  ?"  she 
persisted.  "  Why  did  you  pretend  to  be  poor,  and  dig 
and  work  like  a  laborer  ?" 

"I  have  told  you,"  he  said  evasively.  "  I  wanted  to 
use  my  life  and  my  money  in  another  way.  You 
know  how." 

"Yes,  but  you  could  have  done  both — you  were 
doing  both;  Mrs.  Smalley  said  so!" 

His  eyes  had  assumed  a  hunted  expression  during 
this  inquisition.  This  alter  ego  of  his  resembled  a  gnat 
in  her  persistency.  He  wondered  vaguely  whether  all 
married  life  would  be  like  this.  Must  he  lay  bare  the 
inmost  recesses  of  his  soul  to  the  inspection  of  the 
coldly  critical  blue  eyes  which  were  bent  so  pitilessly 
upon  him  ? 

"Hilda,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I  was  trying  to 
avoid  temptation;  1  wanted  peace,  and  I  thought  I  had 
found  it." 

"  Yes,  but  what  temptation  ?  Was  it  a  girl  ?  Yes,  I 
know  it  was!  "  She  turned  upon  him  with  the  air  of  a 
half-grown  kitten  who  pounces  upon  her  first  prey. 
"  It  was  some  girl!  "  she  repeated.  "That  Miss  Liv 
ingstone,  I  am  sure.  Did  she  refuse  you  ?" 

He  flushed  a  deep,  distressed  crimson  under  this  fire 
of  indelicate  questions.  He  begged  her  with  his  eyes 
to  desist. 

"You  might  just  as  well  confess,"  she  cried  shrilly. 


350  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"  I  could  let  you  know  that  you  were  not  the  only  one 
if  I  chose! " 

"Hilda!"  he  murmured  in  a  low  shamed  voice,  "I 
beg  of  you! " 

She  had  the  grace  to  blush  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  and 
beheld  the  beneficent  presence  of  Mrs.  Smalley  stand 
ing  on  the  graveled  walk.  "I  directed  the  coachman 
to  set  me  down  at  the  gate,"  cried  that  lady  effusively. 
"  1  thought  1  would  walk  across  your  charming  lawn 
and  surprise  you!  We  just  arrived  this  afternoon." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
Unexpected  Guests 

WERE  it  the  object  of  this  chronicle  to  record  the 
experiences  of  an  ambitious  woman  in  her 
struggles  to  scale  the  difficult  heights  whereon  the  so 
cially  great  of  the  earth  have  established  themselves,  it 
might  be  shown  how  Hilda  Rossi  learned  many  valua 
ble  lessons  in  the  course  of  her  endeavors.  One  who 
aspires  to  be  a  woman  of  fashion  is  inducted  perforce 
into  the  wholesome  art  of  self-repression — an  accom 
plishment  which  is  closely  akin  to  the  more  noble  vir 
tue,  self-denial,  that  obliteration  of  the  animal-self 
that  the  God-self  may  become  manifest. 

The  God-self  in  Hilda  was  as  much  in  the  dark  as 
ever;  but  the  animal-self  learned  gradually  to  sheath 
its  claws  in  velvet  and  to  assume  the  airs  of  heaven. 
Under  Mrs.  Smalley's  kind  fostering  care  the  beautiful 
Mrs.  Rossi  was  guided  past  the  fatal  rocks  which  were 
seen  to  threaten  her  frail  bark  in  the  last  chapter. 

"It  is  always  most  unwise,  my  love,"  said  this  pru 
dent  matron,  "to  know  too  many  of  our  young  men, 
amusing  and  delightful  as  they  are. — At  first,  I  mean. 
One  soon  gets  the  reputation  of  being— just  a  little 
risque,  don't  you  know  ?  I  could  point  you  out  a 
dozen  such  women  here  in  Newport.  They  know 
positively  every  one  of  the  men,  and  entertain  them 
lavishly;  but  I  am  sure  they  would  give  their  eyes  just 
to  get  a  bow  from  Mrs.  Waldorf-Spencer." 

35* 


352  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"What,  that  cross-looking  old  woman  you  intro 
duced  me  to  this  morning!"  exclaimed  Hilda,  un 
guardedly. 

"  My  dear — you  will  pardon  me,  but  you  really 
must  not  say  such  things!  I  was  so  thankful  to  be 
able  to  secure  the  presentation.  You  must  learn  to 
appreciate  things  as  they  are.  And  I  don't  want  you 
to  know  any  more  of  these  sadly  naughty  men  till 

you've  met  their  mammas.  Then But  you  shall 

see! " 

So  there  were  no  more  jovial  groups  to  be  found  on 
the  veranda  of  the  Rossi  cottage.  After  a  time— a 
tiresomely  long  time,  Hilda  thought — a  number  of 
severely  correct  elderly  matrons  left  cards.  The  dili 
gent  Mrs.  Smalley  expressed  great  delight  at  this 
circumstance.  "  Things  could  not  be  going  better," 
she  declared,  with  empressement.  Indeed,  as  a  further 
proof  of  social  success,  Hilda  perceived  one  day  among 
her  letters — yes,  actually,  an  invitation  to  a  garden 
party  from  the  eminent  Mrs.  de  Willoughby  Smith- 
Jones.  Her  face  lighted  up  with  such  a  radiance  of 
smiles  and  blushes  that  Immanuel  laid  down  his  news 
paper  the  better  to  observe  the  pleasing  phenomena. 

"What  has  made  you  so  happy,  Hilda  ?  "  he  asked. 

"We  are  asked  to  Mrs.  de  Willoughby  Smith- 
Jones'  for  Thursday!"  she  told  him  gleefully.  "What 
shall  I  wear  ?  "  She  was  unfolding  another  letter  as  she 
spoke.  It  was  a  voluminous  affair,  written  on  pink 
paper,  the  lines  crossed.  As  her  glance  traveled 
down  the  first  page  the  smiles  vanished,  and  the  be 
wildering  color  settled  into  a  steady  glow  of  anger. 
"  Of  all  the  cool  impertinence!  "  she  cried,  tossing  the 
sheet  aside.  "What  do  you  think,  Amelia  Hurd  has 


UNEXPECTED  GUESTS  353 

just  married  Jack  Snider,  and  she  says  they  are  coming 
to  visit  us  on  their  wedding  tour.  They  are  coming 
to-day." 

Immanuel  lifted  his  brows  with  a  quizzical  stare. 
"I  thought  Miss  Hurd  was  your  very  particular 
friend,"  he  said. 

"Well,  she  was,"  admitted  Hilda;  "but  it  doesn't 
follow  that  I  am  going  to  keep  up  the  friendship.  I 
don't  want  to  know  her  any  longer,  nor  Jack  Snider 
either;  he's  awfully  common  and  vulgar." 

She  felt  a  sincere  gratitude  welling  up  in  her  soul  as 
she  made  this  statement,  gazing  critically  the  while  at 
the  dark,  clear-cut  face  opposite.  "To  think  that  I 
once  actually  thought  Jack  was  the  nicest!"  she 
mused.  These  mingled  sentiments  brought  so  sweet 
a  smile  to  her  eyes  and  lips,  that  Immanuel  stooped  to 
kiss  his  wife  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtain,  as  they 
passed  out  of  the  breakfast-room.  "And  to  think 
that  such  a  fastidious  little  woman  should  have  chosen 
a  poor  farmer,"  he  murmured. 

"How  you  do  love  to  talk  about  that  summer," 
said  Hilda,  pettishly;  "  it  seems  just  ages  ago  to  me!  " 

His  face  clouded  as  he  glanced  from  the  elaborately 
attired  little  figure  at  his  side  to  the  profusion  of  costly 
trifles  about  the  room.  "After  all,  we  were  happier 
then,"  he  said,  appealingly;  "and  you  were  just  as 
beautiful  in  the  plain  little  cotton  gown  you  wore 
when  we  sat  reading  under  the  hickories,  do  you  re 
member,  dear?" 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  horrid  old  pink  muslin," 
said  Hilda,  tossing  her  head.  "I'm  sure  I'm  ever  so 
much  happier  now.  But  look — if  that  isn't  'Melia  and 
Jack  coming  up  the  drive!  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 


354  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

It  was  Immanuel  who  received  the  obviously  em 
barrassed  couple,  when  they  were  presently  shown 
into  the  reception-room.  "We  didn't  really  mean  to 
come  an'  see  Hil'  till  the  last  minute,  did  we,  Jack?" 
said  the  blushing  bride,  turning  for  moral  support  to 
her  husband. 

Mr.  Snider's  high  collar  was  wilted  by  the  heat;  his 
usually  red  cheeks  were  purple;  his  moustache  drooped 
dispiritedly.  "I  didn't  want  to  come,"  he  mumbled, 
with  an  apologetic  duck  of  his  head  toward  his  host. 
"She  made  me." 

"1  promised  Hilda  ever  so  long  ago  to  come  and 
make  her  a  visit,"  observed  Mrs.  Snider,  nervously 
hitching  her  bracelets  into  view.  "Is  she  here — at 
home,  I  mean  ?'' 

"Yes,  certainly,  she  will  be  in  at  once,"  said 
Immanuel,  encouragingly.  But  when  after  ten  min 
utes  of  extremely  desultory  conversation,  the  lady  of 
the  house  failed  to  appear,  he  excused  himself  and 
went  in  search  of  her. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  own  room,  her  face  set  in 
obstinate  lines.  "Have  they  gone?"  she  asked 
fretfully.  "  I've  been  watching  to  see  them  go  away." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  inquired  with  marked 
displeasure,  "that  you  intended  to  let  them  go  away 
without  seeing  you  ?  " 

"But  I  said  I  didn't  want  to  know  them  any 
longer,"  she  replied,  rising  nevertheless  and  going 
over  to  the  mirror.  "  I  thought  Smith  could  tell  them 
I  was  out;  I  told  him  to.  Mrs.  Smalley  says  it  is  per 
fectly  proper  to  say  you  are  not  at  home  when  you 
don't  wish  to  receive  people,  and  I  don't  want  to  see 
them  one  bit." 


UNEXPECTED  GUESTS  355 

He  muttered  something  under  his  breath,  as  she 
deliberately  rearranged  her  already  perfectly  coiffured 
hair.  "  Please  go  down  at  once,"  he  said,  coldly. 

Hilda's  greetings  to  her  visitors  were  of  the  frostiest. 
Mr.  Snider  somehow  slunk  away  into  his  clothes  as  he 
gazed  furtively  at  the  exquisite  little  figure.  "  To 

think  I  dared "  he  syllabled  to  himself.  His  bride 

heroically  ignoring  the  chilling  responses  to  her  effusive 
remarks,  chatted  on  ceaselessly.  "What  a  perfectly 
elegant  place  you  have  here,"  she  said,  peering  curi 
ously  out  of  the  long  windows;  "  I  shall  tell  the  folks 
all  about  it  when  I  get  back  home." 

Hilda  rose  hesitatingly  to  this  bait.  She  had  already 
experienced  a  faint  impulse  to  display  the  grandeur  of 
her  surroundings.  "If  you  could  stop  to  lunch  with 
us,"  she  said  with  suggestive  emphasis,  "I  shall  be 
very  happy  to  show  you  the  place.  We  find  it  very 
pleasant  in  a  quiet  way,"  she  added,  airily. 

"  And  that  dear  baby !  "  cried  the  bride  with  a  beatific 
glance.  "  Certainly  we  can  stay.  I  thought " 

But  Mr.  Snider  found  his  voice  at  this  juncture. 
"No,  we  ain't  going  to  stay,  "Melia,"  he  said  firmly; 
"  not  more'n  half  an  hour  or  fifteen  minutes.  We've 
got  an  engagement  to  the  hotel  an'  don't  you  furget 
it!  If  you  an'  Hilda  want  to  go  over  the  diggin's, 
why,  I'll  set  and  read  the  paper  till  you  come 
back." 

His  wife  opened  her  mouth  to  reply,  but  he 
silenced  her  with  a  violent  wink  and  grimace.  It  was 
evident  that  Mr.  Snider  intended  to  be  master  in  his 
own  house. 

"I  don't  know  what's  got  into  Jack,"  observed  his 
bride,  as  Hilda  led  her  up  the  wide  stair.  "  I  thought 


356  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

maybe  if  you  didn't  have  any  other  company  we  could 
stay  a  week  or  two;  but  Jack " 

"Mr.  Snider  evidently  has  other  ideas  for  his  wed 
ding  journey,  dear  Amelia,"  said  Hilda  sweetly.  "We 
must  not  be  too  exacting,  you  know." 

"Seems  's  'o  you're  getting  awful  ceremonious, 
Hil',"  cried  the  bride  with  a  slightly  hysterical  laugh. 
"You'll  be  calling  me  Mis'  Snider  next! " 

Hilda  turned  a  displeased  stare  upon  the  flushed  face 
of  the  speaker.  "If  you  talk  so  loud,"  she  said, 
coldly,  "  the  servants  will  hear  you. — There,  this  is  my 
boudoir." 

"  My! "  exclaimed  the  visitor,  with  wide  open  eyes. 
"  Ain't  this  perfectly  lovely !  What's  in  here  ?  " 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Hilda,  stiffly.  "We  will  not 
open  that  door,  if  you  please;  my  maid  is  sewing 
there."  Her  lips  curled  scornfully  as  she  surveyed  her 
guest,  who  with  considerable  embarrassment  was  ex 
claiming  over  the  view  from  the  wide  windows. 

"It  don't  seem  possible  that  you're  the  same  little 
Hilda  that  used  to  tell  me  all  her  secrets,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Snider  sentimentally.  "  I've  got  heaps  to  tell  you;  I'm 
just  dying  to  have  a  real  good  visit! " 

"I'm  not  the  same,"  said  Hilda,  calmly.  "Every 
thing  is  different." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  like  me  any  longer 
just  because  you're  richer  than  we  are  ?  "  Mrs.  Snider's 
eyes  flashed  ominously  as  she  asked  this  pertinent 
question.  "I  guess  you'd  better  not  get  me  mad," 
she  added  spitefully;  "  I  could  make  your  cake  dough 
without  half  trying.  Yes,  indeed  I  could!  " 

Hilda  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height.  She  felt 
that  it  would  be  unbecoming  to  descend  to  Mrs. 


UNEXPECTED  GUESTS  357 

Snider's  vulgar  level.  She  therefore  ignored  the  threat 
conveyed  in  her  last  words.  "It  is  not,  of  course,  a 
matter  of  money  which  determines  social  position," 
she  said  with  admirable  gentleness.  "  But  the  trend 
of  life  often  carries  the  best  of  friends  in  widely  diverse 
directions." 

"Well,  I  must  say!"  ejaculated  the  other  with  a 
loud  sniff;  "  you've  been  taking  lessons  of  some  Mis' 
Stuck-up  an'  got  her  airs  down  fine.  I'll  go  away  now 
with  Jack.  He's  good  enough  for  me!  " 

Hilda  watched  them  with  a  relieved  sigh  as  they 
walked  down  the  drive.  Mr.  Snider  flourished  his 
cane  haughtily,  and  Mrs.  Snider's  elbows  were  vibra 
ting  with  wrath.  A  burst  of  strident  laughter  trailed 
back  upon  the  breeze. 

"She's  angry,"  murmured  the  hospitable  mistress  of 
the  villa;  "but  I  don't  care.  She  can't  interfere  with 
me  now.  I'm  thankful  to  be  rid  of  them;  I  just 
couldn't  have  taken  them  to  Mrs.  de  Willoughby 
Smith-Jones'  party! " 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
A  Scrap  of  Paper 

E  careful  that  thou  merit  not  the  ill-will  of  even 
a  dog,"  runs  an  ancient  aphorism;  a  nugget  of 
inspired  truth  which  is  further  incorporated  into  end 
less  myths  and  legends.  It  is  the  maid  who  speaks 
gently  to  the  old  witch-woman  from  whose  mouth 
drop  pearls  and  diamonds;  and  the  poor  lad  who 
rescues  the  fish,  the  bird  and  the  fly,  marries  the  beau 
tiful  princess  in  a  blaze  of  glory.  When  dull  human 
ity  shall  have  learned  its  lesson,  it  will  discover  the 
boomerang  nature  of  rude,  passionate  and  unkind 
words.  It  will  then  begin  to  comprehend  the  mys 
terious  underlying  law  of  Love — which  indeed  is  the 
only  law  in  this  world  and  in  all  worlds. 

Mrs.  Snider  went  away  from  the  presence  of  her 
erstwhile  friend  and  crony  filled  with  rage  and  morti 
fication.  "She's  a  nasty,  stuck-up  thing;  that's  what 
she  is!"  she  cried  wrathfully.  "I'll  never  speak  to 
her  again  as  long  as  1  live!  " 

Mr.  Snider  was  deeply  displeased  at  the  turn  affairs 
had  taken.  He  had  not  at  first  blush  approved  of  his 
bride's  plan  of  visiting  Newport.  He  clumsily  re 
minded  her  of  the  fact. 

"  Don't  you  say  '  I  told  you  so,'  to  me,  Jack  Snider," 
retorted  the  lady  with  spirit.  "You  were  mighty  soft 
on  Hil'  yourself  once,  and  you  said  we  might  stay  two 
weeks." 

358 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  359 

Mr.  Snider  pursed  up  his  lips  in  prudent  silence. 

"I  guess  if  I  should  tell  that  big,  soft  husband  of 
hers  a  thing  or  two  that  /  know,  he'd  cut  her  off  a  little 
on  her  pin  money,"  continued  Mrs.  Snider. 

Mr.  Snider  lifted  his  black  eyebrows  inquiringly. 

"You  see  that  Rossi  fellow  made  out  he  was  poor 
when  he  was  courting  Mil'  up  in  the  country.  She 
didn't  have  anything  else  to  take  up  her  time,  so  she 
let  him  make  love  to  her;  but  when  she  got  home  I 
could  see  she  had  two  minds  to  throw  him  over.  She 
didn't  want  anybody  to  know  she  was  engaged,  and 
made  me  promise,  cross  my  heart,  I  wouldn't  tell." 

Mr.  Snider's  round  face  assumed  a  deeper  shade  of 
purplish  red  as  he  stared  at  his  wife's  angry  counte 
nance.  "Say!"  he  ejaculated,  "did  you  tell  me  she 
was  engaged  to  be  married  to  that  fellow  when  she 
come  home  from  her  gran'father's  ?" 

"Of  course  she  was.  She  didn't  know  a  word 
about  his  money  either.  I  thought  I  should  die  the 
day  I  found  that  paper." 

"  What  paper  ?" 

"Why,  ain't  you  got  a  lot  of  curiosity,  Jack!"  Mrs. 
Snider  glanced  up  into  the  frowning  eyes  of  her  hus 
band  with  a  mixture  of  coquetry  and  suspicion  on  her 
lean  face.  "What  d'  you  want  to  know  for?" 

"Jest  fur  fun,"  dissembled  Mr.  Snider,  biting  his 
cherished  mustache. 

"Twas  funny,  sure!"  agreed  the  lady.  "I  found  a 
paper  wrapped  'round  a  crock  of  butter;  in  it  was 
this"  She  paused  to  extricate  from  her  traveling  bag 
a  scrap  of  folded  newspaper.  "  1  meant  to  give  it  to 
Hil'  sometime  while  we  was  there;  I  thought  she'd 
show  it  to  him,  an'  we'd  all  have  lots  of  fun  over  it." 


360  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"It's  about  him,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes;  an'  she  was  struck  all  of  a  heap  when  she 
read  it.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  faint  away.  Up  she 
jumps  and  lights  out  of  the  door  as  if  she  was  crazy." 

"  Where'd  she  go  ?" 

"Why,  down  to  the  post-office  to  be  sure;  Cal 
Winters  told  me  the  very  next  day.  She  wanted  to 
get  two  letters  out  of  the  mail." 

"  Did  he  give  'em  to  her  ?  " 

"No,  he  told  her  he  wouldn't.  But  I'll  bet  she  got 
'em  somehow  or  other.  She  always  used  to  get  her 
way  in  the  end." 

Mr.  Snider  was  slow  but  sure  in  his  mental  pro 
cesses.  He  recalled  having  come  upon  Job  Winters 
just  as  that  young  person  was  extracting  a  mail-bag 
from  under  a  big  elder  bush  at  the  roadside.  The 
youth's  stammering  explanations  and  entreaties  had 
left  a  distinct  impression  on  his  mind.  "Say,"  he 
burst  out,  "was  it  about  the  middle  of  August  she 
done  that  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,  it  was;  it  was  the  seventeenth.  Ire- 
member  because  you  proposed  to  me  the  very  next 
night.  I  was  so  surprised;  I  thought  you  liked  her 
best,  Jack!"  The  bride  squeezed  the  manly  arm 
linked  within  her  own,  and  rolled  up  her  greenish  orbs 
sentimentally. 

Mr.  Snider's  muttered  reply  was  so  inappropriate  and 
unexpected  that  the  lady  was  shocked,  "jack, "she 
said  severely,  "do  you  realize  that  you  said  mad  dog 
backward  ?  And  you  a  member  in  good  an'  regular 
stand  — 

"I  don't  care  if  I  did!"  snorted  the  young  man. 
"  The  little  minx!  I'd  like  to " 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  361 

His  bride  stared  at  him  in  silent  amazement  for  some 
minutes.  Then  a  curious  mingling  of  satisfaction  and 
wrath  swept  across  her  face.  "  I  understand  the 
whole  thing,  now,"  she  said  composedly.  "  You  pro 
posed  to  her,  an'  she  threw  him  over  an'  accepted  you. 
When  she  read  that  paper  she  changed  her  mind." 

"Little  devil!  "  growled  Mr.  Snider. 

"  I'm  not  pretty  like  Hilda,"  pursued  the  lady  with 
astonishing  calmness;  "but — but — I've  always  loved 
you,  Jack! " 

Mr.  Snider  read  truth  in  the  face  that  was  upturned 
to  his.  All  at  once  it  appeared  beautiful  to  him. 
"'Melia,"  he  said  earnestly,  "I'm  glad  she  done  it! 
Mebby  I'd  been  so  fooled  by  her  I'd  never  had  my 
eyes  peeled  to  see  you." 

It  is  a  pity  that  Mrs.  Snider  could  not  have  rested 
satisfied  with  the  entirely  pleasing  outcome  of  this 
little  comedy  of  errors.  Love  truly  is  sweet;  but  the 
fatal  scrap  of  newspaper  suggested  revenge,  and  re 
venge  is  also  sweet. 

On  a  bright  summer  morning  some  two  weeks  later, 
as  Immanuel  Rossi  stooped  to  look  at  his  little  son 
who  was  being  wheeled  about  in  a  perambulator  on 
the  lawn,  a  servant  handed  him  a  letter.  He  thrust  it 
carelessly  into  his  pocket  and  continued  his  attentions 
to  the  lordly  occupant  of  the  fairy  vehicle  which 
foamed  over  with  costly  laces  and  embroideries.  The 
youngster  had  gotten  to  the  point  of  fixing  laughing 
eyes  of  recognition  upon  his  father,  the  while  he 
babbled  charmingly  in  the  unknown  tongue  of  baby 
hood. 

The  white-capped  nurse  looked  on  with  an  indul 
gent  smile  for  awhile,  then,  quick  to  observe  tokens 


362  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

of  approaching  petulance  in  her  charge,  announced 
with  authority  "that  it  was  time  for  Master  Armitage 
to  be  takin'  his  forty  winks  of  sleep." 

The  youthful  father,  yielding  to  the  superior  wis 
dom,  withdrew  to  his  library.  There  were  papers 
here  to  be  inspected  and  a  host  of  letters  to  be  written. 
The  pile  of  sealed  and  addressed  envelopes  suggested 
the  unread  missive  of  the  morning.  He  opened  it  de 
liberately;  a  scrap  of  newspaper  fell  out.  He  glanced 
it  over  with  some  amusement.  ' '  Remarkable  Caprices 
of  a  Multi-Millionaire!  "  Who  could  have  sent  him 
this  absurd  account  of  himself  ?  Why  did  papers 
print  such  inanities  ?  He  asked  himself  these  ques 
tions  while  his  fingers  further  explored  the  envelope. 

There  was  a  folded  paper  within;  his  eyes  seized 
quickly  upon  the  words  which  were  written  there; 
but  his  brain  at  first  refused  the  information  thus 
thrust  upon  it.  He  read  it  a  second  time;  then  a  third 
and  a  fourth. 

He  did  not  question  the  truth  of  what  that  small 
sheet  of  pinkish  paper  had  told  him.  He  touched  it 
gingerly  as  it  lay  before  him  exhaling  a  sickly  perfume 
which  nauseated  him.  A  hateful  thing — a  poisonous 
thing!  It  made  his  wife  a  liar.  He  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  gazed  at  the  small  deadly  object  from  which 
emanated  with  its  hateful  odor  a  force  which  was  tear 
ing  him  like  the  claws  of  a  tiger. 

After  a  time  he  folded  the  thing,  and  thrust  it  with 
the  scrap  of  printed  paper  into  the  remotest  recess  of 
his  desk.  Then  he  arose  like  one  in  a  dream  of  an 
guish,  and  looked  out.  The  nurse  still  wheeled  the 
perambulator  about  the  lawn.  Being  a  pious  soul  she 
was  crooning  the  words  of  a  hymn. 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  363 

"  Let  the  world  despise  and  leave  me ; 

They  have  left  my  Savior  too. 
Human  hearts  and  looks  deceive  me ; 
Thou  art  not  like  them  untrue  !  " 

The  pessimistic  religion  of  this  hymn  was  not  the 
religion  which  swayed  Immanuel  Rossi;  he  believed 
first,  last  and  always,  in  the  inherent  God-likeness  of 
man;  in  the  world  trend  toward  the  divine.  Yet  in 
this  hour  of  his  soul's  humiliation  he  found  comfort  in 
the  dolorous  words.  After  a  little  the  better  comfort 
of  the  "  Lo,  I  am  with  you  always  "  fell  upon  him  like 
a  benediction.  In  the  sad  stillness  the  old  voice — long 
silent — again  spoke  to  him.  "Go  back,"  it  said  to 
him,  "go  back  to  the  way,  my  child,  and  all  will  be 
well." 

Strangely  enough,  he  felt  no  indignation  toward 
Hilda,  but  only  an  aching  pity.  Should  he  blame  an  ig 
norant  child  for  snatching  at  a  heap  of  glittering  play 
things  just  beyond  its  reach  ?  As  he  thought  of  the 
small  figure  it  seemed  strangely  dimmed  as  with  the 
remoteness  of  days  past.  And  so,  his  head  bowed 
upon  his  breast,  he  sat  thinking  the  long,  long  thoughts 
of  youth  and  sorrow. 

It  was  Hilda  who  found  him  there  long  past  the 
hour  for  luncheon.  "  Have  you  been  here  all  this 
time  ?"  she  demanded,  staring  at  him  with  wide  eyes 
of  astonishment.  Then,  in  a  lower  voice,  "What  is 
it — are  you  ill  ?" 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her  with  so  sweet  and  awful 
a  look  in  his  dark  eyes  that  she  drew  back  involunta 
rily,  putting  her  hands  behind  her  like  a  naughty  child. 
"You — you  are— ill?"  she  said  uncertainly.  "Shall  I 
call  some  one  ?  " 


364  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

'•'No,  dear,"  he  said  gently;  "I  am  not  ill.  Come 
here,  Hilda." 

She  crossed  the  room  and  stood  by  his  side,  all  the 
old  awe  of  him  rushing  back  upon  her  as  she  looked 
down  into  his  face.  A  question  trembled  on  her  lips, 
but  she  dared  not  utter  it. 

After  all  he  had  nothing  to  say  to  her.  He  sighed 
deeply  once  or  twice,  holding  the  small  hand  in  both 
his  own.  After  a  long  silence  she  bent  over  him  and 
kissed  him  timidly  upon  the  forehead.  He  started 
back  as  if  stung. 

"Will  you  sit  down,  Hilda,"  he  said  in  a  strange, 
low  voice.  "  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

She  sank  into  the  chair  he  indicated,  her  heart  beat 
ing  in  her  throat.  A  thousand  little  lying  excuses  half 
formed  started  up  in  her  mind  to  defend  her,  then 
dropped  back  again  to  grow  while  he  spoke.  But  it 
was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  He  was  merely  telling 
her  that  he  must  go  back  to  the  city ;  his  tenants  needed 
attention;  new  buildings  must  be  erected,  something- 
must  be  done  for  the  women  and  children  in  the  stifling 
heat.  It  was  the  old  story — a  tiresome  story.  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  baby  ought  not  to  stay  in 
the  sea  air  all  the  summer  and  autumn,"  she  began, 
after  his  slowly  syllabled  words  had  ceased.  "The 
doctor  says  it  would  be  best  to  take  him  to  Lenox  in 
September." 

He  made  no  answer. 

After  a  short  expectant  silence  she  went  on,  "The 
Gilbert  estate  is  for  sale,  I  am  told.  Would  not  that 
be  a  good  place  for  us  ?  " 

"No,"  he  answered  quietly. 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  365 

"Why  not?"  she  urged,  her  eyes  filling  easily. 
"Everybody  goes  to  Lenox  in  the  fall.  And  baby 
will  really  need  the  change — to  say  nothing  of  me. 
You  used  to  care  a  little  about  me!  " 

He  gave  her  a  strange  look  that  drove  the  tears  back 
to  their  source.  "I  shall  not  buy  any  more  houses  for 
the  three  of  us,"  was  all  he  said;  but  it  silenced  her. 

She  wondered  at  intervals  during  the  evening  after 
his  departure  as  to  what  new  "crochet"  had  devel 
oped  in  her  husband's  brain.  It  occurred  to  her  to  look 
through  his  desk  for  light  on  the  subject.  But  after  a 
cursory  examination  of  several  uninteresting  busi 
ness  letters,  she  abandoned  research  in  that  direction. 
"He  is  only  a  little  queerer  than  usual, ''she  told  herself. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
An  Hour  of  Child-Study 

DURING  the  course  of  the  next  five  years  Hilda 
Rossi  had  ample  time  to  discover  that  it  was  no 
idle  whim  that  had  changed  the  current  of  her  hus 
band's  life.  She  was  still  ignorant  of  the  true  cause 
which  carried  him  daily  further  and  further  away  from 
her.  He  had  now  an  office  somewhere  in  the  city. 
She  had  never  visited  the  place.  That  tremendous 
activities  were  centered  there  she  learned  through  the 
constant  comments,  complimentary  and  otherwise,  of 
the  press. 

Her  own  life  had  become  a  round  of  social  functions 
which  at  times  failed  to  interest  her.  To  meet  the 
same  people,  attired  with  monotonous  splendor,  day 
after  day,  week  after  week,  and  year  after  year;  to 
hear  the  same  music;  to  eat  the  same  salads,  ices  and 
sweets;  to  talk  the  same  unending  commonplaces — 
all  this  palls  on  the  least  of  human  souls  after  a  time. 
A  being  endowed  with  the  attributes  of  its  Maker 
must  necessarily  expand  beyond  the  bounds  of  a  mere 
butterfly  existence  either  soon  or  late. 

It  had  come  about  that  Hilda,  having  gradually  mas 
tered  her  small  sins  of  omission — which  indeed  were 
more  numerous  than  her  sins  of  commission,  had  at 
last  taken  rank  as  a  woman  of  fashion;  one  who  spoke 
as  one  having  authority  on  all  questions  pertaining  to 

366 


AN  HOUR  OF  CHILD-STUDY          367 

society.  This  much  having  been  accomplished  she 
found  herself  as  bitterly  dissatisfied  as  ever,  and  long 
ing  for  new  worlds  to  conquer  like  any  Alexander. 
Then  it  was  that  she  fell  to  attending  lectures  and 
clubs;  developed  a  mania  for  rare  prints;  collected 
butterflies;  allowed  her  name  to  be  added  to  endless 
managerial  boards.  Later  it  chanced  that  she  "took 
up"  child-study — a  fad  of  the  moment,  and  straight 
way  discovered  in  her  young  son,  Armitage,  certain 
curiously  interesting  and  instructive  traits.  This 
brought  her  a  little  nearer  to  the  silent  man,  who  sel 
dom  talked  with  her  in  these  days,  but  sometimes 
watched  her  with  a  strangely  sad  look  in  his  brown  eyes. 

More  than  once  she  had  attempted  to  break  through 
the  wall  of  mysterious  reserve  which  strengthened 
with  the  years.  She  learned  after  a  time  that  any 
token  of  affection  on  her  part  was  the  signal  for  a 
question  on  his:  "What  can  I  do  for  you,  Hilda?" 
She  came  at  last  to  hate  this  question. 

The  two  met  one  day  unexpectedly.  Hilda  had  been 
reading  aloud  to  her  little  son — it  being  a  part  of  the 
specified  course  in  child-study  to  classify  youthful 
comments  on  literature.  She  was  questioning  him 
now  with  more  or  less  skill  on  what  she  had  been 
reading — it  chanced  to  be  Kingsley's  immortal  Water- 
Babies.  His  replies  she  jotted  down  with  care  in  a 
dainty  note-book. 

"Now,  Armitage,"  she  went  on,  "why  was  it  that 
Tom  never  found  a  water-baby  till  after  he  got  the 
lobster  out  of  the  pot  ?  " 

"  You  haven't  read  the  story  nine  times  yet,  mother," 
said  the  little  fellow.  "  It  says  you  must  read  it  nine 
times  before  you  will  find  out!  " 


368  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Hilda  gravely  set  down  this  answer  in  her  note-book. 
Then  to  the  child's  immense  delight  she  read  again  the 
scene  where  lonely  little  Tom  in  his  fruitless  search 
for  the  water-babies  finds  the  stupid  lobster  in  the 
round  cage  of  green  withes. 

"I  know — I  know!  without  hearing  it  nine  times," 
cried  the  lad,  his  brown  eyes  shining. 

Hilda  dropped  the  book  in  her  lap.  "What  is  it 
that  you  know?"  she  asked. 

"I  know  why  Tom  found  the  water-babies  after  he 
helped  the  lobster." 

"  Well,  why  was  it?" 

"It  was  just  the  helping,"  said  the  child,  nodding 
his  head  wisely.  "  I  guess  daddy  will  find  the  water- 
babies  pretty  soon,  because  he  is  always  helping  some 
body." 

"  Who  told  you  that,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Nurse  said  so.  She  says  daddy  is  the  best  man  in 
the  whole  world.  He  helped  her  brother  when  he  had 
broken  his  leg  and  had  nine  children." 

Hilda  tapped  the  book  thoughtfully  with  her  pencil. 
"Do  you  think  I  shall  find  any  water-babies,  Armi- 
tage  ?  "  she  asked. 

The  child  surveyed  her  keenly.  "  Are  you  going  to 
write  it  down  in  the  book,  mother  ?  or  do  you  want  to 
know?"  he  demanded. 

"I  want  to  know,  of  course,"  laughed  Hilda. 

"Well,  then,  I  don't  think  you  will.  You  don't 
help  daddy.  He  feels  bad,  sometimes." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Armitage  ?  "  she  murmured, 
and  glanced  up  to  see  her  husband  standing  in  the 
doorway. 

She  colored  under  the  look  in  his  eyes  till  the  tears 


AN  HOUR  OF  CHILD-STUDY          369 

filled  her  own.  For  some  unexplained  reason  she 
trembled  so  violently  that  the  pencil  dropped  from  her 
fingers. 

He  restored  it  with  a  low  bow.  "You  are  occu 
pied,"  he  said  politely.  "I  will  come  some  other 
time." 

The  boy  flung  himself  upon  the  retreating  figure. 
"Don't  go,  daddy!"  he  begged;  "we're  reading 
Water-Babies.  You  like  Water-Babies.  Tom  has 
found  them  at  last.  I  am  so  glad!  " 

Immanuel  eyed  his  wife  with  some  astonishment. 
He  had  not  known  her  in  this  role  of  devoted  mother. 
He  acknowledged  that  it  became  her  with  a  little 
throb  of  his  heavy  heart.  "  Shall  I  stay  ?  "  he  asked 
her. 

"  If  you  like,"  she  said,  indifferently,  but  with  a 
curious  tremor  in  her  voice.  She  was  wondering  if  he 
had  heard  the  child's  verdict  and  her  own  question. 
"  You  know  the  story,  of  course,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  and  plunged  at  once  into  the  reading. 

"  'Now  then,'  they  cried  all  at  once,  '  we  must  come 
away  home,  or  the  tide  will  leave  us  dry.  We  have 
mended  all  the  broken  seaweed,  and  put  all  the  rock- 
pools  in  order,  and  planted  all  the  shells  again  in  the 
sand,  and  nobody  will  see  where  the  ugly  storm  swept 
in  last  week.' ' 

"That  is  just  what  you  do,  daddy,"  said  the  child, 
gravely,  as  his  mother  paused  to  turn  the  leaf.  "You 
clear  away  all  the  ugly  houses,  and  plant  the  dirty 
courts  with  flowers,  and  make  everything  pretty  and 
nice.  You  ought  to  see  how  lovely  it  is,  mother; 
won't  you  come  with  us  some  day  ?  " 

The  man  flushed  a  little  under  her  inquiring  eyes. 


3/o  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

"The  boy  went  with  me  one  day  to  see  the  new 
houses  by  the  river,"  he  said.  "  You  need  not  fear,  I 
took  care  that  there  was  no  contagion." 

She  remembered  that  long  ago  she  had  once  re 
fused  to  kiss  him  because  he  had  just  come  home 
from  "those  horrid  slums."  "lam  not  afraid,"  she 
said  hurriedly. 

"And  will  you  come  with  daddy  and  me  to  see 
how  pretty  it  is  now  ?  It  used  to  be  ugly  and  dark, 
and  the  children  were  sick  and  some  of  them  died; 
and  the  women  didn't  care  about  keeping  their  rooms 
clean.  Now  they  are  all  quite  happy.  I  should  like  to 
live  there;  there  are  so  many  little  boys  to  play  with. 
Won't  you  come,  mother  ?" 

There  was  a  breathless  silence  in  the  room  for  the 
space  of  a  minute.  Then  Immanuel  said  quietly, 
"Mother  has  too  many  other  things  to  do,  lad;  she 
doesn't  care  for  the  new  houses  by  the  river." 

She  opened  her  lips  to  reply,  but  he  checked  her 
by  rising  with  a  glance  at  his  watch.  He  stooped 
to  kiss  the  child,  then  went  away  without  another 
word. 

"Don't  you  love  daddy? "asked  the  child,  laying 
his  small  hand  timidly  on  the  skirt  of  her  gown. 

"What  a  question!"  cried  Hilda  with  an  unsteady 
laugh.  "You  must  go  out  now  with  nurse;  see,  she 
is  all  ready  for  you." 

With  a  sudden  impulse  she  leaned  down  to  the 
child  and  pressed  her  lips  to  the  rosy  cheek  where  a 
moment  before  her  husband  had  left  a  kiss.  "  Am  I 
falling  hopelessly  in  love  with  my  husband  ? "  she 
asked  herself  half  angrily  when  she  had  gained  the 
shelter  of  her  own  room.  For  the  hundredth  time  she 


AN  HOUR  OF  CHILD-STUDY          371 

mused  long  over  the  estrangement  which  had  grown 
up  between  them  in  a  single  day.  Then  she  called  her 
maid  somewhat  sharply  and  made  ready  to  attend  a 
series  of  receptions. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
Greater  Love  Hath  No  Man 

IN  his  almost  single-handed  combat  with  the  hydra- 
headed  offspring  of  public  indifference  and  private 
greed  Immanuel  Rossi  had  so  far  gained  but  little 
ground.  The  monster  grew  horribly  fast,  stretching 
its  slimy  coils  along  both  rivers,  penetrating  the  busi 
ness  centres,  thrusting  its  ugly  head  into  outlying 
suburban  regions,  overrunning  the  carelessly  defended 
districts  of  the  middle  classes,  and  even  leering  con 
temptuously  at  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  rich.  "  You 
do  not  heed  me,"  it  seemed  to  say;  "but  I  grow  while 
you  sleep,  and  before  many  years  I  shall  strangle  you 
in  a  single  night." 

It  was  like  trying  to  beat  back  the  waves  of  the 
incoming  tide,  yet  he  persisted  doggedly.  City  officials 
first  laughed  at  him,  then  cursed  him  savagely,  while 
they  heaped  up  legal  obstacles  mountain  high  in  the 
face  of  his  endeavors  to  mitigate  the  nameless  horrors 
which  beset  the  herded  poor. 

The  clergy  shook  their  learned  heads  over  his  utter 
ances;  they  regretted  piously  that  he  would  not  occupy 
a  more  conservative  platform.  When  he  thundered 
anathemas  against  a  leading  church,  which  worshipped 
God  magnificently  with  rolling  organ  and  long-drawn 
chant,  while  its  revenues  were  being  wrung  from 
horrible  tenements  not  a  stone's  throw  from  its 

372 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN      373 

heaven-piercing  spire,  the  church  turned  its  back  upon 
him  altogether.  It  might  perhaps  have  crucified  him 
had  that  mode  of  efTacement  been  in  vogue.  Yet  he 
was  not  altogether  friendless;  the  owner  of  millions  is 
perforce  respected,  and  there  were  those  who  loved 
him.  The  women  and  children  whom  he  had  snatched 
from  the  jaws  of  the  monster  worshipped  him.  Some 
of  the  men  acknowledged  that  he  was  doing  the  best 
he  knew  how.  They  understood  better  than  the  women 
the  almost  hopeless  nature  of  his  task. 

His  method  was  simple:  he  searched  for  the  most 
congested  spots,  bought  the  property  where  it  could 
be  bought,  and  replaced  the  filthy  old  houses  with  new 
ones,  upon  which  was  expended  the  best  skill  pro 
curable.  Crowding  there  must  be;  the  tenement  had 
come  to  stay;  but  between  the  old  tenements  and  the 
new  was  all  the  difference  between  hell  and  heaven. 
Then  came  the  more  difficult  task  of  maintaining  the 
unaccustomed  level  of  decency  among  the  common 
herd  which  crowded  in  to  take  possession. 

On  the  day  when  he  had  stumbled  upon  that  innocent 
little  scene  in  his  own  nursery  he  walked  away  from 
the  palace  which  he  called  home,  and  struck  straight 
into  the  region  of  the  monster  which  was  nearest. 
There  were  certain  terrible  old  houses  there  which  he 
had  been  trying  to  gain  possession  of  for  a  year  past. 
Their  owner  was  absent  on  a  pleasure  trip  and  declined 
to  part  with  his  treasure,  which  was  indeed  bringing 
him  something  like  forty  per  cent. 

In  his  visits  to  this  particular  plague  spot  he  had 
found  a  young  man  dying  with  consumption.  It  was 
a  common  enough  case;  a  brick-layer  who  had  moved 
in  from  the  country  with  his  wife  and  two  children, 


374  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

in  the  hope  of  securing  steady  employment  on  some 
of  the  big  buildings  going  up  in  that  part  of  town. 
Being  a  good  workman  he  had  no  difficulty  in  getting 
work,  and  for  a  time  all  went  swimmingly  with  the 
young  family.  Regular  wages  meant  a  sufficiently 
pleasant  spot  to  live  in  and  plenty  to  eat.  Yet  the 
children  grew  thin  and  white  on  the  city  milk,  and  the 
wife  longed  for  the  country  garden,  as  she  bought  the 
wilted  vegetables  from  the  corner  grocery. 

Then  came  swift  destruction.  A  heavy  cold — or 
was  it  the  foul  dust  from  a  demolished  building  ? — and 
the  slow-approaching  death  of  tuberculosis  laid  the 
sole  support  of  the  family  low.  Once  entered  upon 
the  old  track  worn  smooth  by  the  feet  of  countless 
thousands  they  had  sunken  swiftly  to  the  level  of  the 
submerged. 

As  Immanuel  Rossi  picked  his  way  among  over 
flowing  barrels  of  garbage  which  with  the  swarming 
children  filled  almost  every  foot  of  space,  he  was 
thinking  of  this  man.  He  coupled  him  in  his  mind 
with  the  complacent  theorists  who  declare  that  "the 
condition  in  which  one  finds  himself  is  the  best  pos 
sible  condition  for  his  individual  development."  There 
were  times  when  this  would-be  savior  almost  doubted 
the  divine  cooperation;  this  was  one  of  them.  As  he 
climbed  the  stairs  in  the  fetid  half  darkness  to  the  tune 
of  slamming  doors,  squeaking  pumps,  and  crying- 
children,  he  wondered  dully  if  God  was  present,  filling 
the  foul  air  with  His  fulness,  individualizing  Himself  in 
the  gaunt  forms  which  hurried  to  and  fro  in  the  filthy 
corridors;  if  here  the  divine  energy  was  at  work  carry 
ing  these  wretched  beings  on  in  their  appointed  cycle 
of  endless  existence. 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN      375 

The  sick  man  lay  gasping  on  a  low  cot  by  the  one 
window,  which  opened  on  an  air  shaft  less  than  three 
feet  square. 

"How  are  you  to-day,  Mr.  Stark?"  said  Immanuel, 
advancing  with  a  cheerfulness  he  did  not  feel. 

"  He's  easier  to-day,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  woman 
who  sat  at  his  side  fanning  away  the  flies  with  a 
folded  newspaper.  "He  ate  a  bit  of  the  fruit  and 
things  you  sent  yesterday."  She  relapsed  into  silence 
with  that.  What  indeed  was  there  to  talk  about  ? 

"Have  you  thought  over  what  I  proposed  yester 
day  ?  "  asked  Immanuel,  after  a  heavy  pause. 

"  He's  too  sick  to  move,"  said  the  woman  with  an 
obstinate  tightening  of  her  blue  lips;  "if  you'd  come 

two  months  ago,  sir;  but  now "  She  stopped 

short  and  redoubled  her  exertions  with  the  newspaper. 
"I  don't  want  him  took  to  no  hospital  neither,"  she 
added  sullenly.  "The  doctor  was  for  takin'  him  be 
fore;  but  he  don't  want  to  go." 

"No,  I  ain't  goin',"  gasped  the  man.  "I  know 
these  'ere  doctors;  all  they  want  is  a  chance  to  cut  you 
up  when  you're  dead." 

"  But  if  you  had  more  air,  you(could  breathe  better," 
suggested  their  visitor  rather  hopelessly. 

"1  can't  breathe  what  I've  got,"  snapped  the  sick 
man. 

"We're  very  thankful  to  you,  sir,  for  what  you've 
done,"  began  the  woman,  turning  her  sunken  eyes 
upon  Immanuel.  "  He's  kin'  of  short,  'cause  he  feels 
so  bad." 

"It  ain't  that,"  said  the  man,  raising  himself  with 
difficulty.  "I've  been  thinkin'  things  over  sence  I  lay 
here,  an'  I  don't  b'lieve  there's  any  God  anywheres 


3;6  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

that  loves  us  like  a  father  same  as  you  was 
sayin'." 

"Oh,  Dave,"  wailed  his  wife,  "don't  you  say 
nothin'  like  that!  It  'ud  be  laid  up  against  you,  an' 
you've  always  been  such  a  good  man  you  d'serve  to 
go  to  heaven." 

"Heaven!"  sneered  the  man;  "heaven!  don't  you 
talk  to  me  'bout  no  heaven,  Mary.  I  wouldn't  go  thar 
if  I  could  an' leave  you  an' the  children  here!"  He 
made  a  gesture  of  indescribable  loathing  as  he  glanced 
about  the  squalid  room.  "What  1  want  to  ask  you, 
sir,"  and  he  turned  his  bright  eyes  upon  Immanuel, 
"is  why  you  have  more'n  you  kin  spend?  Yes,  I 
know  who  you  be;  I  seen  you  one  day  comin'  out 
your  house  on  the  av'noo!  Why  ain't  I  a  right  to 
enough  to  live  on  ?  I  was  willin'  to  work,  an'  I  did 
work  as  long's  I  cud  hoi'  my  trowel.  Why  am  I  here 
an'  you  yonder?"  He  dropped  back  on  his  dingy 
pillow  while  the  woman  began  to  cry  dispiritedly. 

"Don't  you  mind  what  Dave  says,"  she  pleaded. 
"  He — he's  off  his  head  with  the  fever  an'  all.  I  don't 
know  what  we'd  a  done  without  you,  sir;  they  was 
goin'  to  put  us  out  o'  here  a  Tuesday." 

The  man  on  the  couch  laughed  brokenly.  "We'd 
all  'a'  been  in  your  high-falutin'  heaven,  Mary,"  he 
gasped.  "I'd  ha'  seen  to  it;  I  meant  to." 

"What — what  do  you  mean,  Dave?"  whispered  his 
wife,  dropping  to  her  knees  beside  him.  "You'd 
never  'a'  hurt  the  children!  " 

Immanuel  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  "  I  want 
to  talk  to  him,"  he  said. 

She  rose  obediently,  snatching  up  a  half  finished 
garment  and  falling  feverishly  to  work. 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN      377 

"You  asked  me  some  questions  just  now,"  went  on 
Immanuel,  fixing  his  sombre  eyes  on  the  sick  man. 
"  I  will  answer  them  as  I  believe.  I  have  no  rights  on 
God's  earth  that  you  have  not,  my  brother." 

"Then  why  are  you  livin'  in  a  palace?"  demanded 
the  other.  "  Why  does  your  wife  shine  with  di'mon's 

an'  ride  in  a  kerridge,  while  my  wife "  His 

despairing  gesture  finished  the  sentence. 

Immanuel  made  no  answer;  and  silence  fell;  not 
the  silence  that  breaks  the  hosannas  of  heaven  "  for 
the  space  of  half  an  hour,"  while  angels  veil  their  faces 
before  the  ineffable  presence;  but  the  silence  of  the 
tenement  house  which  only  serves  to  make  near  and 
unendurable  the  thousand  fretting  sounds  of  herded 
humanity. 

"You  can't  answer  me!"  cried  the  consumptive 
hoarsely,  raising  himself  on  his  elbow  and  pointing  a 
lean  accusing  finger  at  the  rich  man.  "You're  off  a 
piece  with  the  rest,  though  you  have  spent  some  of 
your  loose  change  on  us  beggars!"  The  bitterness 
of  his  tone  was  indescribable. 

The  woman  started  forward,  but  stopped  short  with 
the  words  of  expostulation  half  uttered.  "Something 
has  happened!"  she  whispered,  and  stood  listening, 
her  head  thrust  from  the  half  open  door. 

A  short  word  reiterated  again  and  again  in  a  chorus 
of  shrill  voices  reached  them  as  they  waited.  It  was 
drowned  in  the  thunder  of  trampling  feet  which  shook 
the  staircases.  Screams,  yells,  cries  of  pain  and  fear 
mingled  in  the  tumult.  The  woman  added  a  piercing 
note  to  the  uproar  and  darted  away. 

"  It's  fire,"  observed  the  man  on  the  cot  composedly. 
"She's  gone  to  look  fur  the  children."  He  showed 


3/8  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

his  yellow  teeth  in  a  terrible  smile.  "Maybe  there 
won't  be  so  much  difference  betwixt  the  two  of  us 
inside  of  an  hour." 

"I  must  get  you  out  of  this,"  cried  Immanuel, 
stooping  to  lift  him  to  his  feet. 

"  No,  I  won't!  "  screamed  the  man.  "  I'll  burn  here 
where  I've  suffered  the  torments  of  the  damned,  an' 
yOU — curse  you!  shall  burn  with  me!  " 

The  man  was  manifestly  mad;  fever  blazed  red  in 
his  cheeks;  his  eyes  glittered  with  murderous  hate. 
Immanuel  lifted  the  gaunt  figure  as  one  would  lift  a 
child  and  stepped  with  his  burden  into  the  dark 
hallway. 

A  gleam  of  light  guided  him  to  an  open  door 
further  down  the  passage.  His  feet  slipped  in  the 
contents  of  an  overturned  washtub,  but  blessed  air 
mingled  with  the  choking  smoke.  A  few  steps 
further  and  he  had  reached  a  window;  it  opened  upon 
a  balcony  which  he  took  to  be  a  fire-escape.  Amid 
the  indescribable  litter  of  rubbish  a  woman  squatted 
in  seeming  indifference,  three  children  clinging  to  her 
shoulders. 

"Why  don't  you  get  out  of  this?"  shouted  Im 
manuel  in  her  ear. 

She  turned  with  a  start  and  pointed  down  into  the 
tangle  of  clothes-lines  loaded  with  fluttering  rags 
which  swayed  back  and  forth  in  the  murky  air;  red 
tongues  of  fire  were  thrusting  themselves  out  of  the 
billowing  smoke  below.  Immanuel  fell  to  pulling 
boxes  and  barrels  aside  with  frantic  haste  in  his  search 
for  the  opening.  The  consumptive  laughed  aloud. 
"This  ain't  no  fire-escape,"  he  whispered;  "it's  a  nice 
airy  balcony;  the  escapes  is  at  the  other  end." 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN      379 

Another  fight  with  the  smothering  smoke,  this  time 
with  the  two  smallest  children  in  his  arms;  the  sick 
man  galvanized  into  sudden  life  at  sight  of  the  flames 
following  close  at  his  heels.  Past  innumerable  door 
ways  where  pale  gleams  of  daylight  fought  with  the 
billowing  smoke,  past  air-shafts  which  now  roared 
like  great  chimneys;  past  the  useless  pumps.  The 
woman  was  in  the  lead  now;  she  knew  the  place. 
They  came  suddenly  upon  a  little  group  of  silent 
figures  crowded  about  a  narrow  window.  They  were 
waiting  their  turn  for  life  on  the  narrow  ladder. 

A  single  loud  scream  arose  from  without. 

Immanuel  forced  his  way  to  the  window  and  sprang 
out.  Low-voiced  curses  and  cries  of  "shame!  "fol 
lowed  him.  He  flung  out  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of 
denial.  "I'll  save  you  if  I  can!"  he  cried.  They 
stared  at  him  dully  and  were  again  silent. 

Looking  down  he  beheld  the  reason  for  that  despair 
ing  scream.  Furious  flames  had  burst  from  the  win 
dows  below;  they  reached  out  long  scarlet  fingers 
after  the  dark  fluttering  figures  on  the  ladder.  The 
last  of  these  stopped  short,  wavered  for  an  instant, 
then  without  a  sound  dropped  into  the  reddish  smoke 
that  surged  up  to  meet  it. 

An  hour  ago  he  had  doubted  the  presence  of  the 
Omnipotent.  Now  of  a  sudden  he  knew  himself  to 
be  a  part  of  it.  He  smiled  in  the  face  of  the  fire  as  he 
looked  about  him  for  some  place  to  bestow  the  wait 
ing  women  and  children  whose  great  eyes  stared  at 
him  expectantly. 

Crowded  edgewise  into  what  had  once  been  an  open 
yard  stood  a  squat  building,  its  roof  barely  a  foot  above 
the  iron  balcony  where  he  was  standing.  This  build- 


38o  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

ing  was  as  yet  untouched  by  the  fire;  in  the  winding 
alley-way  below  streams  of  water  as  thick  as  a  man's 
wrist  had  begun  to  leap  and  play  like  huge  serpents; 
they  burrowed  into  the  crashing  windows,  tearing 
away  great  fragments  of  rotten  timbers  and  brick 
work  which  crumbled  and  fell  in  hissing  showers  into 
the  depths  below.  The  firemen  were  at  work,  but 
not  one  was  visible.  He  shouted  again  and  again;  the 
swish  and  swirl  of  the  battling  waters  drowned  his 
voice.  The  iron  balcony  was  growing  hot  beneath 
his  feet;  the  wall  to  which  it  was  fastened  trembled 
ominously.  He  measured  the  space  between  the  spot 
where  he  was  standing  and  the  roof  opposite.  He 
could  jump  across  and  save  himself.  The  animal 
within  clamored  for  this  one  chance  of  safety;  the 
God  there  heard  the  wail  of  a  frightened  child. 

With  a  word  to  the  man  Stark  who  stood  beside 
him,  he  flung  himself  outward  from  the  edge  of  the 
fire-escape,  his  feet  locked  firmly  within  the  rail.  His 
hands  caught  at — clutched — the  edge  of  the  gutter  op 
posite;  his  body  wavered,  sank  downward,  then  stiff 
ened  into  a  living  bridge  between  the  two  buildings. 

"Quick  now!"  she  shouted.  And  one  of  the 
women,  there  were  three  of  them,  crawled  out  upon 
his  tense  body,  clutching,  slipping,  shrieking  in  his 
bursting  ears,  but  gaining  at  last  the  safe  level  of  the 
roof.  Obeying  the  hoarse  shouts  of  the  consumptive 
she  reached  for  a  child  which  another  thrust  out  as  far 
as  she  was  able  on  the  body  of  Immanuel. 

It  was  scarce  ten  minutes  before  all  were  over,  but 
it  seemed  an  eternity  of  agony  to  the  man  who  hung 
there.  He  thought  of  the  Christ  on  the  cross,  and  his 
failing  muscles  grew  tense  again.  "  He  saved  others," 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN      381 

he  muttered,  "  Himself  He  could  not '  His  strain 
ing  eyeballs  stared  into  whirling  clouds  of  vapor  shot 
through  with  unearthly  light;  wailing  voices  sounded 
in  his  ears,  frantic  hands  clutched  at  him.  He  felt  his 
rigid  fingers  relaxing  one  by  one.  He  was  falling — 
falling  into  soundless  depths  of  night  and  oblivion. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
Resurrection 

HE  opened  his  eyes  upon  white  walls  flooded 
with  the  pink  light  of  dawn.  Behind  him  lay 
the  dark  reaches  of  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  through 
which  he  had  toiled  all  unknowing.  The  rosy  splendor 
trembled  and  wavered  as  it  mounted  inch  by  inch  in 
tiny  ripples  toward  the  ceiling.  He  gazed  at  it  un- 
winkingly,  the  dreams  of  the  past  night  crowding  in 
upon  him.  Strange  dreams  they  were  and  terrible, 
but  already  so  vague  and  remote,  so  merged  in  the 
drowsy  peace  of  this  new  awakening  that  he  smiled 
at  the  light  like  a  child.  The  slight  rustling  of  dra 
peries  and  the  sound  of  a  hushed  foot  on  the  floor  did 
not  rouse  him.  He  was  thinking  now — with  the  curi 
ous  distinctness  of  a  vision — of  the  resurrection  morn 
ing.  Alone  in  the  rock-cut  tomb  he  lay — the  Savior 
who  had  given  his  life  for  a  lost  world,  swathed  hand 
and  foot  in  odorous  linen,  immovable,  dreaming  back 
into  the  life  more  abundant  while  the  pink  light  of 
dawn  rippled  on  gray  walls.  It  was  the  waiting 
angels  who  loosed  him  with  loving  care — blue-eyed 
angels  with  disordered  yellow  hair,  who  stooped  over 
him  with  the  sound  of  a  little  sob  in  their  throats. 

He  stared  long  at  this  last  vision,  his  eyes  clearing  at 
last.     "  Hilda!  "  he  cried. 

"Hush!"  she  made  answer;  "you  are  to  swallow 
this  and  sleep." 

382 


RESURRECTION  383 

He  obeyed,  his  eyes  dwelling  confusedly  on  the 
round  arms  and  shoulders  gleaming  white  through 
diaphanous  folds  of  muslin — pink  muslin.  He  remem 
bered  now.  The  wind  rustling  through  the  wide 
branches  of  the  hickories  was  sweet  with  the  breath  of 
clover  blooms;  high  overhead  a  thrush  sang  softly. 

Dreams  again,  cloudy  and  confused,  with  brief 
awakenings  when  he  swallowed  obediently  what  was 
put  to  his  lips,  and  all  the  while  he  was  gazing  at  the 
Christ  bound  hand  and  foot  in  His  grave  clothes — im 
movable,  with  angels  waiting  at  His  head  and  feet. 

One  morning  he  awoke  and  the  will  to  move  and 
raise  himself  came  back.  The  visions  had  faded,  yet 
he  could  not  lift  a  finger;  he  was  bound  hand  and  foot 
like  the  Christ  of  his  dreams.  He  groaned  aloud  and 
opened  his  eyes,  not  upon  the  pale  sweet  faces  of 
waiting  angels,  but  upon  a  bearded  man  who  stood 
gazing  down  at  him  with  a  pleased  expression  on  his 
face. 

He  knew  the  man  and  spoke  to  him.  "Why  am 
I  here?"  he  asked.  "  What  has  happened  ?" 

"This  has  happened,  Mr.  Rossi,"  said  the  doctor 
softly;  "you  have  made  a  splendid  fight  for  life  and 
you  have  won." 

"But  I  wish  to  get  up  and  I  cannot  move,"  said 
Immanuel,  searching  languidly  for  a  key  to  the  man's 
words. 

"You're  right  you  can't  move,  that  is  for  a  while 
yet,"  said  the  doctor  with  a  joyful  chuckle.  "By 
George,  man,  I  thought  you'd  never  care  to  move 
again!  But  don't  fret  yourself  into  a  fever  over  it; 
we'll  have  some  of  those  bandages  off  in  a  few  days; 
meanwhile  patience.  And  here's  Mrs.  Rossi  waiting 


384  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

to  say  good-morning;  she's  worth  a  whole  regiment 
of  nurses!" 

It  was  Hilda  who  emerged  from  behind  the  screen,  a 
great  wave  of  color  flooding  her  pale  cheeks.  Her 
eyes  filled  as  she  looked  down  at  him,  but  behind  the 
tears  shone  a  light  he  had  never  seen  there  before. 
The  God-flame  burned  in  the  dark  no  longer;  fear  and 
remorse  and  tears  and  love  had  done  their  work;  it 
was  the  eternal  womanly  that  shone  in  the  blue  eyes, 
and  their  light  was  sweet  and  satisfying. 

A  week  later  when  his  growing  strength  had  con 
firmed  the  doctor's  cheerful  prophecy,  she  told  him 
how  the  firemen  had  rescued  him  from  his  frightful 
position  on  the  burning  building.  Blackened  and 
choked  with  smoke,  frightfully  burned  and  bruised, 
he  had  lain  unrecognized  in  the  hospital  ward  till  the 
man,  Stark,  himself  dying  not  far  away,  had  revealed 
his  identity. 

"  And  you,"  he  asked;  "  were  you  frightened  when 
I  failed  to  come  home  ?" 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  a  deep  shamed  crimson  steal 
ing  over  face  and  neck.  "I  did  not  know  it  till  late 
the  next  day,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  There  was 
a  dinner  at  the  Bidwells*  that  night,  then  a  concert.  I 
slept  late  and  was  wakened  by  my  maid  who  told  me 
what  had  happened.  If  you  had  died  that  night  I 
should  have  killed  myself."  She  spoke  the  words 
quietly  and  with  conviction. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  hers.  "You  have  been  with 
me  night  and  day,"  he  murmured.  "You  are  pale 
and  worn  with  watching,  dear;  I  saw  you  as  an  angel 
in  my  dreams." 

She  drew  away  from  his  touch  with  a  strange  look. 


RESURRECTION  3«5 

"  Only  in  dreams  could  you  think  of  me  in  that  way," 
she  said  sadly.  "I  ruined  your  life-  No,  do 
not  speak  till  I  have  told  you.  I  must  tell  you! 
1  married  you  because  you  had  the  money.  I 
wanted  a  fine  house,  jewels,  dresses  and  all  that 

money  could  buy.     I  have  been Oh,  how  can  I 

tell  you  all— but  I  must  tell  you.  I  would  have  mar 
ried  Jack  Snider,  but  Amelia  Hurd  brought  me  a  paper. 
It  told  all,  and  I  - 

"  Stop!  "  he  begged.     "  I  know  it." 

"  You  know  it  ?  "  she  whispered.     "  How— when  ?  " 

"  She  told  me— sent  me  the  paper— years  ago.  I 
knew  you  didn't  love  me.  I  tried  not  to  force  myself 
upon  you.  But  Hilda,  why  have  you  brought  me 
back  from  death  if  you  do  not  -  His  eyes  finished 

the  question. 

A  faint  smile  played  about  her  lips.  "You'll  not 
dare  say  that  to  the  doctors,  or  the  nurses,"  she  said 
looking  down.  "They  wouldn't  allow  me  a  bit  of 
credit.  And  indeed  I  don't  deserve  it.  I  deserve  noth 
ing."  Two  large  tears  splashed  on  her  folded  hands. 
Tears  seemed  as  near  the  surface  as  ever;  but  they 
were  different  tears. 

"  You  haven't  answered  me  yet,"  he  urged.  "  If  I 
should  tell  you  now  that  the  money  was  lost  and  that 
we  must  go  back  to  the  little  house  to  live,  what 
would  you  say?" 

"I  am  so  glad!"  she  cried,  delight  beaming  from 
eyes  and  lips.  "  I  will  go  with  you;  I  will  work  for 
you,  oh,  so  hard!  for  I  love  you,  my  husband!  " 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  that  1  had  lost  the  money,  sweet 
heart,"  he  confessed  after  a  while.  "  I  only  said  what 
if  I  should  tell  you  that  the  money  was  gone." 


386  THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Her  face  fell.  "I  wish  you  were  poor,"  she  said 
passionately. 

"  I  wish "  She  stopped  short,  her  eyes  on  his. 

"You  wanted  me  to  help  you,"  she  murmured 
humbly,  "and  I  would  not.  But  now— if  you  can 
trust  me — I  am  sure  that  I  can  be  of  some  use  to  the 
poor  people." 

And  he  knew  that  at  last  he  had  found  his  other  self, 
and  that  from  henceforth  they  two  would  go  forth  to 
gether  to  work  until  the  evening. 


END 


LOVE  AND  THE 
SOUL  HUNTERS 

By  John  Oliver  Hobbes 

Author  of  "The  Gods,  Some  Morals,  and  Lord  Wukenham^ 

"The  Herb  Moon,"  "  Schools  for  Saints," 

"Robert  Grange,"  etc.,  etc. 

TN  this  new  novel  Mrs.  Craigie  (John  Oliver 
-••  Hobbes)  has  made,  according  to  her  own 
statement,  the  great  effort  of  her  life.  It  is  the 
most  brilliant  creation  of  an  author  whose  talent  and 
versatility  have  surprised  readers  and  critics  in  both 
Europe  and  America  for  several  years.  It  treats  of 
unique  examples  of  human  nature  as  they  are,  and 
not  merely  as  they  ought  to  be.  Swayed  by  com 
plex  motives,  they  are  always  attractive,  but  often 
do  what  is  least  expected  of  them.  The  story  is 
graphically  told,  and  is  full  of  action.  Each  per 
sonage  is  distinctively  drawn  to  the  life. 

"  There  is  much  that  is  worth  remembering  in  her  writings. " 
— Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

"  More  than  any  other  woman  who  is  now  writing,  Mrs. 
Craigie  is,  in  the  true  manly  sense,  a  woman  of  letters.  She 
is  not  a  woman  with  a  few  personal  emotions  to  express  :  she 
is  what  a  woman  so  rarely  is — an  artist." — The  Star,  London. 

"  Few  English  writers  have  so  lapidarian  a  style  of  writing  as 
Mrs.  Craigie,  and  few  such  a  capacity  for  writing  epigrams." — 
The  Toronto  Globe. 

I2tno,    Cloth.      $1.50 


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A  ROMANCE  OF  A  STRANGE  COUNTRT 

THE 
INSANE   ROOT 

By  Mrs.   Campbell  Praed 

Author  of'Nadinc;    The  Scourge  Stick  ",•    "As  a  Watch 
in  the  Night"  etc. 

THIS  story  has  the  same  motif  us  Stevenson's  Dr.  Jekyl 
and  Mr.  Hyde,  and  a  weird  treatment  resembling  that 
of  Bulwer's  "  Strange  Story."  It  will  compare  favor 
ably  in  strength  and  literary  quality  with  either  of  these  great 
productions.  Isadas  Pacha,  Ambassador  at  the  Court  of  St. 
James's  from  Abdullulah  Zobeir,  Emperor  of  Abaria,  dying  at 
last  after  a  long  life  of  mixed  good  and  evil,  leaves  to  his  phy 
sician,  Dr.  Marillier,  "  the  insane  root,"  a  mandregora  root, 
enclosed  in  a  small  box.  Marillier,  a  suitor  of  Rachel,  the 
beautiful  ward  of  the  Pacha,  envies  Ruel  Bey,  his  favored 
rival.  Learning  from  the  papers  left  by  the  Pacha  that  the 
mandrake  root  has  marvelous  powers,  Marillier  succeeds  in 
assuming  the  body  of  Ruel  who  has  been  accidentally  killed. 
On  this  change  of  identities  the  fascinating  story  turns.  After 
marrying  Rachel  the  problem  of  consummating  the  marriage 
can  not  be  solved  by  Marillier,  the  wraith  of  the  real  Ruel 
preventing.  A  bolt  of  lightning  solves  the  problem.  There 
is  a  mystery  about  Rachel,  who  turns  out  to  be  the  Emperor's 
own  daughter.  The  scenery  is  partly  that  of  the  Algerian 
mountains,  very  graphically  and  beautifully  described.  The 
supernatural  elements  are  handled  in  a  way  to  make  them  seem 
actually  credible.  The  storm  climax  reminds  the  reader  of 
Hawthorne's  best  work  in  the  Marble  Fawn. 


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A    NEW    NOPEL 

THE    SEARCHERS 

By   Margaretta   Byrde 
A  CRITICAL  ESTIMATE  OF  THE  STORY 

AT.  QUILLER  COUCH,  writing  in  The  Bookman  of 
.  London,  speaks  of  the  "beginner's  freshness,  spirit, 
and  earnestness  of  conviction  ' '  apparent  in  this  ' '  first 
novel."  Of  Mrs.  Byrde's  handling  of  a  crucial  situation  in 
her  plot,  he  says  : 

' '  She  manages  it  triumphantly  because  she  believes  in  it. ' ' 

In  character  delineation,  Mr.  Quiller  Couch  says  : 

"  She  has  humor  and  seriousness,  and  each  is  a  part  of 
the  other." 

He  compares  the  new  author  to  Jane  Austen  : 

"  Her  currish  suitor,  the  Rev.  Perkyn  Voyse,  is  a  really 
delightful  specimen  of  the  egotistical  snob,  and  his  letter — 
could  more  be  said  ?  —  might  have  been  penned  by  the  immor 
tal  Mr.  Collins  of  '  Pride  and  Prejudice.'  " 

Of  another  character  he  remarks  : 

"  No  more  delightful  figure  has  been  added  for  a  long  while 
past  to  the  gallery  of  humorous  fiction  than  the  American, 
Major  Gamaliel  K.  Spring,  with  his  chivalrous  respect  for 
'  soaring  '  womanhood. ' ' 

"  Into  her  serious  and  splendid  hero,"  as  Mr.  Quiller  Couch 
characterizes  the  Rev.  Hope  Godwin,  "Mrs.  Byrde  has  put  "all 
her  ideas  of  what  a  man  should  be."  He  is  a  woman's  hero, 
and  yet  in  building  up  his  character,  she  has  introduced  "nothing 
effeminate,  nothing  that  a  man  should  not  wish  to  attain  to." 

Mr.  Quiller  Couch  concludes  : 

"  The  book  deserves  its  high  title  of  '  The  Searchers,'  for 
it  bears  the  impress  of  a  fervent  belief  that  the  secret  of  life  is  a 
noble  one  and  of  a  fervent  desire  to  pursue  it.  Mrs.  Byrde 
writes  '  on  the  side  of  the  angels. '  ' ' 


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THE  HOUR 

GLASS  STORIES 

"A  series  of  little  books  well  calculated  to  occupy 
an  idle  hour."  —  The  Philadelphia  Times. 

Small  I2mo.     Dainty  Cloth  Binding.     Illustrated. 
40  cents,  net,  each;  by  mail,  45  cents 


T     <fho    ?/7*i/7/r/r    **v  Rev-   ^'  GRENELI"     A  beautiful 
*alS    little  idyl  of  sacred  story  dealing  with 
the  sandals  of  Christ. 

Louisville  Courier-Journal:   "The  story  is  told  in  exquisite 
fashion  and  is  one  to  be  enjoyed." 

//.   The  Courtship  of  Sweet  Anne  Page 

By  ELLEN  V.  TALBOT.  A  brisk  little  love  story  incidental  to 
"The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  "  full  of  fun  and  frolic  and 
telling  of  the  courtship  of  Sweet  Anne  Page  by  the  three 
rival  lovers  chosen  by  her  father,  her  mother,  and  herself. 

Washington  Post:    "The  diction    has  a    true    Elizabethan 
flavor,  and  the  humor  possesses  all  the  wit  of  that  period." 

///.   The  Transfiguration  of  Miss  Philura 

By  FLORENCE  MORSE  KINGSLEY.  An  entertaining  story  woven 
around  the  "  New  Thought,"  which  is  finding  expression  in 
Christian  Science,  Divine  Healing,  etc. 

Philadelphia  Daily  Evening  Telegraph  :   "It  is  a  dainty  little 
story,  and  quite  out  of  the  common.  '  ' 

IV    The  Herr  Dnrtnr   By  RoBERT  MACDONALD. 
r  uocior  A  novelette  of  artistic  liter. 

ary  merit,  narrating  the  varied  experiences  of  an  American 
girl  in  her  effort  toward  capturing  a  titled  husband. 


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Charles  Dana  Gibson  says:     "It   is  like   a 
trip  to  Paris." 

THE    REAL    LATIN 
QJJARTER  OF  PARIS 

By    F.    Berkeley    Smith 

Racy  sketches  of  the  innermost  life  and  characters 
of  the  famous  Bohemia  of  Paris  —  its  grisettes,  stu 
dents,  models,  balls,  studios,  cafes,  etc. 

John  W,  Alexander:    "It  is  the  real  thing." 

Frederick  Remington:  "You  have  left  nothing  un 
done." 

Ernest  Thompson  Seton:  "A  true  picture  of  the  Latin 
Quarter  as  I  knew  it." 

Frederick  Die/man,  President  National  Academy  of 
Design  :  "  Makes  the  Latin  Quarter  very  real  and  still 
invests  it  with  interest  and  charm." 

Evening  Telegraph,  Philadelphia:  "A  captivating 
book." 

Boston  Times:    "A  genuine  treat." 

The  Argonaut,  San  Francisco :  "A  charming  volume. 
Mr.  Smith  does  not  fail  to  get  at  the  intimate  secrets, 
the  subtle  charm  of  the  real  Latin  Quarter  made 
famous  by  Henry  Merger  and  Du  Maurier." 

The  Mail  and  Express,  New  York :  "  When  you  have 
read  this  book  you  know  the  '  Real  Latin  Quarter '  as 
well  as  you  will  ever  come  to  know  it  without  living 
there  yourself." 

Boston  Herald:  "  It  pictures  the  Latin  Quarter  in  its 
true  light."  

Water-Color  Frontispiece  by  F.  Hopkinson  Smith,  About  100 
original  drawings  and  camera  snap  shots  by  the  Author,  and 
two  caricatures  in  color  by  the  celebrated  French  caricaturist 
Sancha,  Ornamental  Covers.  12mo,  Cloth,  Price,  $1.20,  net. 
Postage,  13  Cents. 

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St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat:  "It  is  a  simple,  gen 
tle,  quietly-humorous  narrative,  with  several  love 
affairs  in  it." 

UNDER  MY 

OWN  ROOF 

By     Adelaide    L.     Rouse 

siutbor   of   "  The   Deane    G/VA,"     "  ffesto-ver   House,"    etc. 

A   STORY  of  a  "nesting  impulse"  and  what  came  of  it. 
A  newspaper  woman  determines  to  build  a  home  for 
herself  in  a  Jersey  suburb.      The  story  of  its  planning  is 
delightfully  told,  simply  and  with   a   literary-humorous   flavor 
that  will  appeal  to  lovers  of  books  and  of  the  fireside. 

Before  the  house-building  details  are  allowed  to  tire  the 
reader,  a  love  story  is  begun,  and  catches  the  interest.  It 
concerns  the  home-builder,  an  old  flame,  and  an  old  friend,  the 
third  of  whom  has  become  a  next-door  neighbor.  With  this 
romance  are  entwined  a  number  of  heart  affairs  as  well  as  warm 
friendships. 

The  style  is  bright,  and  the  humor  genial  and  pervasive. 
The  "literary  worker"  and  the  "suburbanite"  particularly 
will  enjoy  the  book.  Women  of  culture  everywhere  should 
appreciate  its  delicate  style. 


Illustrations  by  Harrie  A.  Stoner.      izmo,  Cloth. 
Price,  $1.20,  net;  postage,  13  cents. 


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3   1970  00287  6578 


A     000  541  580     7 


